Darkened Wings
by Betz88
Summary: Gregory House has no choice but to make the final sacrifice. Story is partly canon, partly AU. You will not see any names mentioned except those of OCs. If you are a die-hard HOUSE fan, you will recognize many references to the show. (This time I am going down a different path and hoping you will enjoy the journey.)
1. Chapter 1

DARKENED WINGS

Chapter 1

"Change of Scenery"

WHAT A NICE LITTLE TOWN!

I DROVE THROUGH ON WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, LOOKING FOR A PLACE TO STAY FOR A FEW DAYS, OR MAYBE LONGER. THE TOWN WAS FULL OF CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS AND TINY LIGHTS, EVEN IN THE DAYTIME. IT LOOKED FESTIVE AND WOULD PROBABLY BE EVEN MORESO WHEN EVENING CAME. THE WOMAN AT THE POST OFFICE SAID THE WATSON INN HAD NICE ACCOMMODATIONS, SO I THANKED HER AND LEFT TO CHECK THE PLACE OUT.

IT WAS COLD, THE WIND WAS SHARP AND PENETRATING AND THE SKY WAS DARK WITH OMINOUS CLOUD FORMATIONS. I WAS SOON SHIVERING IN MY THIN JACKET, AND WAS VERY GLAD I'D PACKED A MUCH HEAVIER COAT …

The Inn was a large brick building with three floors and a flagstone veranda that had four tall pilasters and a faux stone wall flanking the front entrance. Everything was decorated and Christmassy and it had that fantasy "Whoville" feeling to it. It just so happened that the Inn was directly across the street from a dark brown, wood-shingled apartment building, on the front of which hung a familiar blue and white wheelchair logo.

I knew I had finally come to the right place.

I parked my car in the lot of the Watson Inn and lugged my two bulky suitcases and a heavy overcoat into the tastefully decorated lobby. A hundred-twenty-five dollars a week bought a pleasant room on the second floor with carpet, full bed, and a private bath. There was also a mini-fridge, hot plate and two chairs flanking a small table. From here I could see the immediate neighborhood and most of the street.

I felt a little like a rookie actor about to go onstage; still awaiting my cue in the darkened wings as I peeked at the audience from behind the curtain.

Looking out the corner window, I had a pretty good view of the entrance to one of the small apartments directly across the street. I'd done my research diligently and for a very long time, and I'd finally hit pay dirt. So the juxtaposition of my location to that one particular unit was no accident.

Not wanting to be discovered; at least not right away, I stayed in for the first full day after I arrived. I ordered my food delivered from the hotel's kitchen, and that worked well. I sat in one of the chairs a little back from the window and watched the comings and goings up and down the street. I had been right. Thursday when all the Christmas lights were turned on in the evening, this little town looked like a fairyland.

No one entered or left the apartment I was interested in, but I had plenty of time and was in no particular hurry. I knew it was occupied even though I didn't actually see the person who lived there. Once in a while though, I could discern motion beyond the curtains and vague shadows slowly passing behind the window shade. Later, I found myself imagining the tenant having some strange psychosis about leaving the security of his home, and I laughed aloud at myself.

In all the years I'd known him, restraint was the least of his problems.

Then on Friday morning I spotted him when I was least expecting it. It was early. Maybe between six and seven. I'd made a pot of coffee to ward off the look of chill right outside my window. It was heading into winter and the New England mornings rattled my bones. I'd been looking down the street in the direction of the river when a quick flurry of movement as the apartment door swung open, created a light-filled hole in the wall. I snapped my attention back and found myself looking at a tall pillar of gray that melted into dark shadows against the lighter background.

There he was. No mistaking the profile.

After five agonizing, discouraging years … there he was!

I was so startled I spilled coffee on my sleeve. It wasn't that I didn't expect to see him again after all the research I'd done and all the disappointments and dead ends. But the reality of the actual sight of him so close while I was actually watching, caused my heart to flutter and then pound thunderously in my chest. In a daze, I set the coffee cup on the table and moved a step closer to the window. Frozen in place, I stared.

He was here. He was real. And he was very much alive.

I found myself grinning, tears threatening. His appearance as a whole wasn't at all as I'd been anticipating. His image took shape before me like random pieces of a jigsaw puzzle drawing itself together out of thin air as though by some sudden stroke of magic.

He was a study in shades of gray. Tall, slender and graceful. His suit looked to be high grade woolen flannel, or something equally soft and meticulously tailored and expensive. He was wearing one of those flat, well-appointed caps I had seen him wear before; the type that elegant British gentlemen seemed to have an affinity for. His hair was longer than I had ever seen it, curling a half inch or so

below his ears. His full beard and mustache were salt and pepper and neatly trimmed. A modern

Beau Brummel in the flesh.

I was astounded. He had always been an elegant man when he wanted to be; but never _this _elegant. He was different. Changed. I wondered: in what way and how much? Was there anything left of the friend I had once known?

My breath hitched in my throat as I continued to study him. Still leaning casually into the wooden frame, he pulled the door tight against his back, keeping the warm air in and the cold air out. He was smoking a cigar, holding it gangster-style in the crook between index and middle fingers. At least this part of him was wonderfully, achingly familiar. I found myself smiling again. When he finished, he flicked the stub into the gutter in a looping, graceful arc. He paused for a moment, looking to his right and back around to the left.

He reached behind himself in a deliberate gesture, and his right hand disappeared briefly as it snapped off the inside light. Clearing the arc of the closing door with that hand, I saw that he was now holding onto a pair of sturdy, light-weight metal crutches. He gave a small hop for balance, and then settled them quickly beneath both arms and stabilized himself. Gradually he eased all the way out onto the porch.

I held my breath as I watched; gradually comprehending that his cane had disappeared, probably forever.

He maneuvered cautiously down the single step onto the street, then turned to the right and began to move with lengthening strides out of sight down the sidewalk. Open-mouthed, I realized that he wore only the left shoe. His right foot, fragile, inwardly twisted and almost brushing the pavement, was clad only in a heavy gray work sock.

Clearly, he couldn't 'walk it off' anymore.

I felt my vision blurring and my head beginning to pound. I reproached myself for not having taken into consideration that his bad leg had also borne the weight of time and had become an even weightier problem than it was before we parted company.

I recalled him telling me in an offhand manner back then, that he would probably lose it sooner or later. It would never get better, and that left only one direction to go. That casual remark many years earlier slammed into my mind now. I had forgotten.

He'd always told me that I drove him crazy doing things for him that he was capable of doing for himself. He would avoid me like the plague if he was hurting, and sneak away to hole up alone. I knew all his haunts and could usually track him down. He would ignore me as though I was nothing but a hole in the air and a minor inconvenience he could tune out as easily as Muzak in a bowling alley.

Sometimes he would play the cripple card and whine like a four-year-old who wasn't getting his way; waving his cane in the air as a bid for sympathy. He did all this with such expertise that it often took me forever to determine whether the complaints were legitimate or just an elaborate con game. When his pain was at its worst, he would become verbally abusive or sit pressed into a tight cocoon of stony silence in an attempt to contain it and drive me away. He hated behaving that way, but his need for privacy at times like those almost eradicated his humanity.

That was when he was most vulnerable, and too sore even to talk. Once in a great while, during one

of these shivering silences, he would reach out, nervous and apologetic, and allow me to touch him. Gasping and drained, he would take my hand and guide it to the most painful spot. I would work my fingers around the wounded flesh of his scarred leg to release some of the spasms he couldn't alleviate on his own.

Around others he was an acerbic, misanthropic jerk whose tongue was a whetted blade. Most people stayed out of his way, but for some reason he would let me enter his inner sanctum. It was a privilege to be there, and I loved him unconditionally. He had no one else to turn to that he trusted. I felt

needed, and in some strange way, loved in return. His utter dependence always made him ashamed; humiliated over the amount of time his own needs had essentially stolen away from my life. I could never convince him otherwise; that I was there because I chose to be.

That last was the reason I could never leave him. He was my best friend; one of the most generous, decent human beings I had ever met. Until the leg. Even afterward, some of the best of him still shone through, but he despised having anyone witness his pain. His need for someone who understood and offered support rather than pity, was palpable.

Then, one day he disappeared. Gone. No trace, no forwarding address: gone.

He made arrangements in secret and sold everything he owned. Paid an auctioneer and company to come and haul it away and sell what was sellable … even his precious baby grand, the antique medical books, and the scarred Honda Repsol. I didn't find out until a few years later that he'd donated the proceeds to charity.

Without notice, he got into his damn dilapidated old car with all that was left of his worldly possessions,

and left town. He confided in no one. Least of all, me. I was lost and confused and in limbo for months. Finally I began snooping and digging and found out what he had done.

Now, at this precise moment, with disturbing new knowledge swirling in my head as he hitched his way down the street, I was weak in the knees and coming a little unglued.

The sudden jolt of reality from witnessing his crippledness and its end game hit me like a blow to the solar plexus. I must try to speak to him; convince him to speak to me. No matter how much he would hate it.

And now we were both here; having reached that end game. Would he allow us to come together again?

I crossed quickly to the bed and sat down hard.

_Oh damn! _

_Damn, damn, damn … _

5


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2

MY CAR IS PARKED IN THE ALLEY HALF A BLOCK FROM MY APARTMENT, AND IT'S GONNA GET

SLIPPERY AS HELL AROUND HERE BEFORE TOO LONG. RIGHT NOW I HAVE A FEELING IN MY GUT THAT TELLS ME THE SHIT'S ABOUT TO HIT THE FAN FOR SOME REASON. IT'S BEEN GNAWING AT ME LIKE A HONEY BEE IN MY HAIR. LIKE I'M ONCE AGAIN BEING 'WORRIED' OVER. I CAN SENSE SYMPATHY PHEREMONES LIKE A HORNY DOG SENSES A FEMALE IN HEAT. DON'T TELL ME THE MENSCH FINALLY HIT THE JACKPOT …

_Uh-oh … _

Actually, I need one of the handicap garage stalls behind my place to free up, but winter's coming on and the old car's going to get snowed on. When that happens, I'm screwed. I gave up my space last spring when I had to have the engine on the beast overhauled. It took more than three weeks to locate all the parts and another week to get the work done. My space was needed by the amputee in the apartment next to mine, so I let it go willingly. But now I'm out in the cold, so to speak. Seasonal visitors around here usually get the hell out of Dodge when the snow flies … so maybe then. I'm waiting. I should call a contractor and have a fourth stall added, but it's too late in the year. Anyhow, nobody wants to get into a project like that so close to the holidays. They'd think I was Scrooge or something.

The windshield's frosted over, and there's no way I can scrape it, so I have to run the defroster instead.

I unlocked the driver's door and parked the crutches against the passenger-side seat. I can no longer slide inside in one quick motion and slam the door closed. I can't just get into the driver's seat, fasten the belt, start the engine and pull away in ten seconds the way I could when I was healthy. These days it's a little more complicated.

I've had this old car a long time. I was sick of the puke-green '61 station wagon that didn't match my self-image as a babe-magnet, or my brand new status as a full-fledged, clean-cut M. D. type. In those days, I was all of thirty. Big shot doctor. When I went golfing with the honchos and department heads, I wanted to be seen lifting my fancy new golf bag with my new golf clubs, and my new golf shoes from the spotless trunk of my brand new car. I wanted the big shots to see and take note.

The Dynasty was the first car I looked at. Dark bluish '89 model. Nothing fancy. Didn't want to overdo it. Automatic, four-door, white-walls: nice package. Why bother looking anywhere else? I couldn't have cared less about the make or the model … just the shine. Wrote a check for thirteen thousand-five hundred and change. Car, registration, tags, tax, insurance, roadside assistance. All the right 'bling'. My slender bank balance took a nosedive like the Titanic: straight to the bottom.

A friend of mine once told me years later that I needed to trade in the damn car … and maybe find me a new place to live. Bigger one. Move into a better neighborhood.

I said: "Why? None of my patients give a shit where I live."

By then I'd stopped worrying about 'status' a long time before.

At home it was just me. Period. None of my patients ever wanted to visit my living room

any more than I wanted to visit theirs.

Actually, there were too many unwelcome changes thrust upon me in my lifetime that I never expected and certainly never asked for. I changed too, and none of the changes were good. I lost what little compassion I had for other people, but expected more of it for me. My mind and my heart turned cold. I was rotten to people who were supposed to mean something to me, and I couldn't seem to change it even though I hated myself for it.

"I'm fine. I don't need your pity, dammit!"

Everybody lies.

Soon, I had no friends left. Except one, and I concentrated on driving him away too. In the end, circumstances dictated that I was to be the outsider. Things began to close in on me a lot faster than I could handle, and I knew it was time to get the hell out of Dodge.

The place where I live now isn't new by any means. But it's mine. It's all wide-open space inside. Crutches, you know. My piano is a spinet, not a baby grand, and I don't play much anymore. It was my mom's, and I guess that's the only reason I keep it. I have a decent living room, a big bedroom, a 'handicap' bath and a kitchenette. And the doorways are wide. It's like living in one glass shoe and waiting for the other one to drop, if you get my meaning.

One of these days somebody will look at this grizzled puss and realize who I am. And that'll be all she wrote.

'Get a new place', for Chrissake? So why would a man who can't walk need a bigger living space anyhow?

I use crutches; not a lawn tractor.

The old Dynasty gets me where I want to go and brings me home. It has 287,000 miles on it and I feed it gas and oil. It runs okay and I'm not trying to impress anybody. It's gone through four sets of tires, a new transmission, an engine rebuild, and survived two wrecks.

(I don't talk about the second one).

I had to have hand controls installed. One more change I was forced to make, but it was necessary now that I'm only semi-ambulatory again. It's permanent this time, but I got used

to it. You can get used to anything that doesn't kill you, and right now the jury's still out on that one.

I'll probably get the news … good or bad … today.

I balanced carefully to clear the space it took for the car door to stop in an open position, and then eased around to settle gingerly into the driver's seat, my shoulder against the wheel. Unlike newer cars, the steering wheel of this one doesn't move out of the way for me to maneuver. But I got used to that process as well. One bump in the wrong place and I'm hunching in pain. So I hold my breath until I get my leg settled in, and then heave a stream of hot air into the cold car. Finally, I close the door and start the engine. When it's warm inside and the windshield is clear, I pull the hand controls into place, run the wipers, put her in gear, and I'm off.

Hell, I'm setting some new speed records today; only twenty minutes from my place to the damn car.


	3. Chapter 3

Part 3

I WAITED ALL DAY FOR HIM TO COME HOME. I HAVE NEVER BITTEN MY FINGER NAILS IN

MY LIFE, BUT TODAY I WAS READY TO START. I'M TOTALLY LOUSY AT JUST WAITING. I FEEL LIKE A NERVOUS PARENT SITTING AT HOME IN THE DARK, WAITING FOR HIS TEENAGE DAUGHTER TO COME HOME FROM HER FIRST DATE. PATHETIC!

For the last five endless years I've lived a day at a time, doing my job quietly, interacting with colleagues, and skating through life. I've gone on occasional dates and outings, laughing when laughter was expected. I listened or exchanged ideas when such things came up in idle conversation. Nothing ever came of those experiences, and I wasn't surprised. I would have been _more _surprised if it had. I put on a pleasant face at work until I began to wonder if my face would turn to stone with that expression indelibly imprinted there for the rest of my life.

The frightening day when my friend revved his engine and gunned his car through the wall of _her_ house, I don't know where my mind was, or where it went after the fact. I don't remember much about it. Just a big circle of revolving lights: police cars, fire trucks, a wrecker and an ambulance.

He had fled the area long before the dog-and-pony act showed up and I couldn't even recall which direction he'd taken. They hauled his car away from the scene and took it … I don't know where. It looked like it was totaled. He limped painfully away from me and away from everything and everybody. We never saw him again. He hurried down the street, so heavy on his cane that I was astounded it didn't break in half, even without being sawed part way through.

The upper right leg of his blue jeans was saturated with blood from the torn stitches of his most recent surgery. His expression was filled with such anguish that the tears in my eyes and the look on my face later, was thought to be the result of a broken wrist that I didn't even realize I had.

After that, the years whittled away a part of my life that I couldn't really afford to lose. I aged rapidly during that time, and finally had to leave the profession I had loved and the patients I cherished. But my heart was no longer in the work and my mind was becoming obsessed with discovering what the hell had become of the man I longed for. I didn't even know whether he was dead or alive.

I liquidated my fancy loft apartment the same way he'd done with his place; sold off the elegant furniture and donated my expensive clothing and tchotchkes; gave the antique organ to a local church.

I euthanized the sickly cat. Poor old Sarah. She was going downhill even faster than me, so I asked the vet to kindly put her out of her misery.

I relinquished the lease and moved into a two-room efficiency. Sold the Volvo and found a

late model vomit-green Volkswagen that would serve my needs just as well and use half the gas. I bought a small laptop computer and set to work researching the whereabouts of the former friend whose memory occupied every waking hour.

Where _are_ you, man?

I knew better than to look for his real name. He certainly wouldn't make it easy on anyone trying to track him down. Taking into consideration his genius at medical diagnosis, I began with hospitals, institutions, laboratories and clinics which engaged consultants on a medical- grant basis.

I checked the newest research work on Alzheimer's, Parkinson's, diabetes, cancer-related break-throughs, muscular dystrophy, ALS, MS; anything that showed even faint promise for a workable cure.

I read endless case histories and looked through journals filled with thousands of licensed medical personnel engaged in research. Any obscure clue at all. All over the eastern seaboard, Maine to Florida.

Nothing. No luck. I drew blank after blank.

One year stretched to two. Then three and four. I did some research and article-writing to support myself, just to keep the rent paid and food on the table. Time gets away from you when you're having fun. But you persevere.

I branched out and hunted for research grants in other states. Close by and then much further away. Time after time I came up zero. No leads, no clues, no familiar names or strange aliases, no grants connected with his limitless interests. No doctors: internists or otherwise, doing work in or near any of his specialties.

Time passed and I became more depressed. I heard no news of him or from him, (of course) and it was as though he'd disappeared down a rabbithole.

About a month ago while checking out an article from a medical center in New Hampshire, I suddenly came across something that struck a chord in my head. And my heart.

I backpedaled quickly.

_WHO?_

I reread the article in the journal. It was dated about six months previous.

New Hampshire, for God's sake. Of all places!

Doing consults for the Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center in Lebanon, under the name of "Dr. Kyle Calloway".

I found myself shivering with nervous excitement. I should have guessed. Should have figured it out sooner. Was it possible that he had left this clue behind on purpose for me to find and follow? Of course he had. I had never mentioned that name to anyone else in my entire adult life, except him.

He had tested me five goddamn years ago … and he had not made it easy. I decided I was more than up to the task, and I actually sat there and dissolved into quiet, hysterical laughter … until I stopped shaking and the laughter turned to tears of relief.

It's 2017. He would be in his late 50s by now.

I closed things down, resigned my dreary little job, and piled my worldly goods into the Beetle. Then I set out eagerly for New Hampshire. In December. Was I nuts?

Probably.

It was very dark. Seven-thirty by my watch. Christmas lights twinkled everywhere and there was intermittent street movement. Not many people on foot. No Wal Marts around here. Most of the traffic was passing through. The arc light on the corner spread a puddle of bright light onto the street about halfway between his apartment and my hotel room.

Here I was again, standing in the darkened wings awaiting a cue: any cue that might present itself.

Beneath the nearly bare branches of trees lining this side of the street, I could see a pair of headlights approaching and then turning in an arc. A car pulled around the corner to the left about a half block away. I watched it as it stopped and the lights blinked out. The driver's door slowly fell open and the interior light came on.

I turned off the only light in my room and glued my eyes to the activity down the street. At first nothing happened. Then I saw him slide out of the car and balance gingerly on his crutches. From the passenger side of the car, he dragged a dark carry bag of some kind by its strap. While I watched, he hauled it out and slung it over his shoulder, maneuvering carefully until he had it settled into place just right.

My breath hitched. Beneath the street light and the accompanying cascade of coruscating Christmas decorations, I saw it was the same blue canvas backpack he'd carried years before when we'd traveled about together. He must keep the thing in the car except when he had to take something into his house.

He moved up the street slowly. Every movement of his body screamed exhaustion. Had he been to work today? Did it always take such a toll on his energy? He made the step up onto his porch a crutch at a time, pausing between steps. His useless foot turned to the inside and hung from his ankle as though it was barely attached. He protected it as best he could, and I found my own body growing rigid with compassion. If he had seen my face at that moment, the look he would have turned upon me was probably the same look a mountain lion would give a cornered fawn.

He made it to his front door and fished in his pocket for a key, probably. He paused to cast a quick glance around the neighborhood, checking the lay of the land. Then he dropped his head and let himself in, hobbling clumsily inside. The first clumsy move I'd seen him make. The door closed slowly behind him.

There was a pause while nothing happened for a minute. He had looked upward in the general direction of my room while he was still in the street. Had he seen me? Recognized me? Surely he hadn't had enough time or enough ambient light to make out my features, even if he had seen something.

His apartment was still dark. Was he just catching his breath, maybe? Fighting pain? Then the light blinked on and I relaxed a little.

I brewed a cup of coffee and kept watch for another hour or so. At nine-thirty his light went out again and things over there became very dark.

He had probably gone to bed.

Still a little nervous, I did too.


	4. Chapter 4

DARKENED WINGS

Chapter 4

"The Last Doctor's Appointment"

MY SENSES ARE PRETTY DAMN SHARP FOR AN OLD FART. SO IS MY BULLSHIT DETECTOR, BOTH OF WHICH HAVE BEEN WORKING OVERTIME LATELY. FOR THE PAST FEW YEARS I'VE LIVED LIKE A FUGITIVE, ALWAYS LOOKING OVER MY SHOULDER AND WAITING FOR THE OTHER FRENCH LOAFER TO DROP …

I'll tell you why:

There's a strange, ugly green Volkswagen Bug parked in the front lot of the Watson Inn across the street.

I first noticed it Wednesday afternoon. As of about eight this morning when I left for my doctor's appointment in Lebanon, it still hadn't moved. Sat in the same tire tracks as when it pulled in.

I didn't see who got out of it. I was a little under the weather all day Wednesday and wasn't paying a lot of attention at first.

Yesterday though, I saw that it was still there, so I started watching the windows of the hotel for any movement in the rooms. Lights going on and off, curtains moving, that kind of thing. They always fill

up the rooms on the street side first, because the other side faces a back alley with nothing but saggy garages, garbage cans, dumpsters, junk cars and such.

Anyhow, the hotel has three floors, a lobby and a restaurant. In the grand scheme of things, this town is no bigger than a fly in a bathtub. The hotel's almost never full to the top except maybe in the summertime when they hold the Old Timers' Festival.

I peeped through my curtains from time to time when I thought about it. First thing I saw was that the room on the second-floor-corner, directly across from my place, and directly over the manager's office, had acquired a new guest very recently. The drapes hung a little crooked and there was a chair pulled up.

Gave me the first clue about the Volkswagen.

Still with me?

Last night, you see, after my examination in Lebanon, I was in the worst pain I'd experienced in months. Along with the bad news about the prognosis for my leg: the exam itself which had me writhing on the table, was excruciating beyond measure, but necessary.

I already knew what I was in for in the near future, but having to hear it from a specialist who knew what he was talking about, tore down all the mental barriers I'd built up over the years. I let myself fall apart and become consumed with the kind of senseless fury that was the only thing preventing me from breaking down into a mewling, feral coward.

They already knew my mental state. They knew my history, because I'd told them a long time ago, including what had made me a cripple in the first place. They were prepared for my nuclear explosion. They knew about all my transgressions and all the terrible things the pain had driven me to do.

They knew exactly who and what I had once been and where I came from, and still addressed me by the only name I'd ever given them. They asked no questions. I thought that was extraordinary.

They laid gentle hands. They injected me with happy juice that sent me into a state of mild oblivion that took away my fear, my hostility and my despair. They understood and gave me a few hours of peace. They did their invasive ministrations while I was in limbo, and where I could not experience pain. They let me sleep for an extended period of time. They introduced an electromagnetic probe into the subcutaneous tissue of the damaged thigh and activated a state-of-the-art biomedical thermonic anode for diagnostic purposes and set it to last a week. They replaced the compression stocking on the calf of the leg to prevent blood clots and sprayed a thermonic coating on the useless foot to aid in keeping it warm and making it _not _ache when I walked.

By seven p.m. I was awake; aware and alert enough to be able to drive home. When I left, I was accompanied to my car by people who cared for me more than I could comprehend. I'd been given another bottle of pain pills that would not mess up my mind or turn me back into some demented freak. I thanked them with a humility I thought I had lost many years ago, and they were gracious beyond any understanding.

When I parked in the alley at 7:30 Friday night, my leg and foot were hurting again, but not to the degree they had hurt before I was helped off that examination table. I was sore, but not so much that I couldn't drive the few miles home.

My old backpack was heavier with the medical supplies and other stuff they'd given me. I pulled it from the passenger side toward me, reached for my crutches and prepared to set out on the short walk to my apartment.

I hadn't thought about it all day, but as I got ready to open the car door and slide out, I noticed the light in the hotel room across from my place winking out and the room reverting to black. In the dim area behind the drapes I could see the ghostly afterimage of a man backing quickly into the darker recesses of the room. I could also feel his presence lingering there and studying me as I gathered my crutches to begin the trek home.

My first reaction was a sudden shiver of apprehension, skittering down my backbone and activating all the bells and whistles lurking inside my head.

Had the powers-that-be finally tracked down this old felon? Were they about to haul his sorry ass to the calaboose to atone for past transgressions?

I slowed for a moment and lifted my eyes to stare toward the second floor of the Inn. Then: something tugged stubbornly at the edge of consciousness. Something familiar about the dim, soft curve of hairline; the angle of the nose, and the rise of a shaggy brow …

The shivering sensation raced down my spine again, but this time it was one of recognition. Suddenly I knew who owned the damned Volkswagen.

The other French loafer had dropped at last, but I wasn't alarmed anymore.

I think the Mensch finally figured it out.

_Cool!_

14


	5. Chapter 5

DARKENED WINGS

Chapter 5

"Planning To Meet by Accident"

I STUMBLED BACKWARD, NEARLY FALLING OVER THE CHAIR. HE'D LOOKED DIRECTLY UP HERE FROM THE STREET. HAD HE SEEN ME? DID HE REALIZE? I HAD NO WAY OF KNOWING.

OH DAMN! I FELT MY ENTIRE BODY GRIPPED BETWEEN GUILT AND WORRY. MY GRAND SCHEME TO TRACK THE ELUSIVE WILD CREATURE AND REUNITE WITH THE MAN WHO HAD ONCE BEEN MY DEAREST FRIEND: HAD I JUST RUINED EVERYTHING IN A FOOLISH MOMENT OF OVEREAGER CURIOSITY?

After the lights across the street went out, I waited a few minutes, just like I used to do back in those days when we were still friends: assuring myself that he was safe. And then I went to bed too. Tossed and turned, wondering what right I had to follow him here and reassert myself as his personal guardian angel. None. But sometimes you can't help yourself.

Finally I fell asleep.

Saturday morning I was up early. In and out of the shower, shaved, glasses shined, teeth brushed, hair dried. I dressed in blue jeans, sweater, winter socks and boots. I was pretty much ready for anything.

I had no idea whether my old friend made his own meals, or had them delivered as I had, or if he got himself up and out to eat somewhere else, such as the diner I had seen on the outskirts of town on my way in. The hotel served excellent food also, as I'd found out from experience, but who knew if he was even acquainted here. He must be. He's been here for a _while._ Anyway, I was willing to wait and watch until I could find out for sure.

So, having done all I could do to prepare for his appearance, I pulled up my customary chair to wait it out. There had been no activity from the apartment so far this morning as far as I could see. Perhaps he was sleeping in and recovering from his travails of yesterday.

Actually, the art of spying on someone without his/her knowledge is a tiresome endeavor. You have

to align your movements with theirs and be ready to move when they do, no matter the time of day or night, or your own convenience. You always have massive gray areas of doubt in your wake every time you have to go to the bathroom or sneak a meal. Did your subject give you the slip while you were indisposed? Good question. Also unanswerable.

It was nearly 8:00 a.m. when I saw the door open at the apartment. It was him. To my surprise, he looked remarkably like the man I'd known years before, and I smiled to myself, ignoring the stiffness in my shoulders and the numbness at the back of my neck. It was time to rock and roll.

I remembered the old Peacoat with the worn collar and the big brown button out of place at the top. He still had the thing. Also, he still had at least one pair of ghastly sneakers, and blue jeans, and the crazy tee shirts and unironed buttondowns. He was wearing all of those things. As well as the hat from yesterday. If it hadn't been for the ridiculously perfect trim of beard-and-mustache, and the precise haircut, he might have stepped out that door and directly back into our storied past.

However, the crutches kind-of spoiled the effect. They hurt my heart with their presence. The sight of the sock-only deformed foot peeking out below the cuff of his jeans caused a cascade of electrical sympathy sensations to go racing down the length of my spinal cord.

The only difference today was the absence of the deepened lines in his face. His expression, as he stepped down from the porch, was at least one of keen interest in his surroundings rather than a tight fixation on pain management.

So unlike yesterday.

I was fascinated to the point that I was lax, for a moment, in observing that he was crossing the street and heading in the direction of the Inn's restaurant.

_Oh shit!_

I jammed my room key into my pocket and picked up my glasses; stepped quickly into the empty hallway and slammed the door behind me. I raced down the narrow passage and skidded to a halt at the top of the steps that descended into the lobby. Quickly I stepped back out of sight and locked my gaze on the front door as it pushed inward with his weight against it.

Just that quickly there was a rotund woman in a pale yellow waitress' uniform easing the door open for him to enter. "Sorry, Doc," I heard her say. "Didn't see you coming."

He was standing right below me, balancing easily and removing his coat. He was smiling … not the snarky smile he'd always presented after he'd become a cripple, but the easy grin that had graced his handsome features before it happened. "Babysitting me isn't in your job description, Lily," he said. "But thanks."

She took his coat and hat and hung them on a rack against the wall by the door. Quickly back at his side, she smiled in return. "Snuggling up to you isn't exactly what I'd call 'babysitting', my dear …"

His only answer was a gentle laugh that confounded me. Walking discreetly just behind his right shoulder, Lily escorted him through the gaily decorated dining room and out of my sight. My knees grew weak. For a moment I thought I might wilt into the floor.

Downstairs, I paused at the end of the holly-festooned front desk. The place smelled like an old fashioned apothecary: raw tobacco, pine boughs, nutmeg, cinnamon, peppermint, lemon and honey; mixed with the savory smells of New England cookery.

*Mmmmm …*

I put on my glasses and pretended to peruse the material in a rack of travel brochures, killing time until it seemed like the right moment to walk into the dining room. All I had to do now was make it look as though we had run into each other by accident. With his steel-trap mind though, I wondered if that was even possible.

But I'd never know if I didn't try.

He was seated at a booth near the back, at a slight angle, but almost facing in my direction. He had his reading glasses on, and his bad leg was propped in front of him on a bench, atop a handsome pillow that looked like it had been lovingly hand stitched, especially for him. His crutches were hanging beside him on a hook fastened to the end of the booth. He looked as comfortable as I had seen him in years. A fingernail worried absently at a bottom tooth as he concentrated on a large menu that partly obscured the lower half of his face.

I took a deep breath, stepped from behind the curtain and walked onto the stage …

I came through the middle of the dining room very slowly, past other diners who paid me not the slightest attention other than a quick glance.

When I came to his booth, I paused; cleared my throat while my stomach writhed into complicated knots. I spoke softly.

"Is this seat taken?"

He looked up and met my nervous gaze with unfathomable eyes.

Deadpan. Contained amusement. A meticulously manicured hand slowly removed the glasses and placed them on the table before him, to be followed shortly by the menu.

Then the hand lifted again and grandly indicated the empty bench opposite.

"I was wondering how long you'd stall before you scraped together the nerve to look me up."

There was a hint of that old one-upmanship grin building behind those incredible eyes.

"Unhhhh …" I said.

He _knew, _dammit!

"Um-hmm … articulate as ever, I see."

18


	6. Chapter 6

DARKENED WINGS

Chapter 6

"Memories"

I GOT AWAKE SOMETIME AFTER SIX SATURDAY MORNING. I WAS STRETCHED OUT LIKE AN OLD DOG IN FRONT OF A FIRE. MIRACULOUSLY PAIN-FREE. I DIDN'T MOVE, JUST LOLLED THERE LIKE A HALF-MELTED MARSHMALLOW … AND LET THE WARMTH AND THE LAZY MOOD WAFT OVER ME.

Wow!

If there's anything I really like about this apartment, it's that it's warm and it always smells good. Like mixed spices and old leather. Some people would even say 'cozy'.

Sometime during the night I had thrown the covers off, even though I was down to nothing but skivvies. I was comfortable and felt no need for blankets. Sometimes that's the very best of all possible worlds. My world, anyway.

Actually, bodywise, I don't have all that much to complain about … that is if you don't include the sickly

right leg into the equation. The left one, however, has developed over time to something I could actually call marathon-worthy. Solid as a fence post. Manly.

I've always been lucky in the 'physique' department. I can eat like a shark and never gain a pound, and some people are damn envious of that. I have an incredible metabolism. It's one of the few things about my body that still makes me smile.

My face has reached that 'rode-hard-and-put-away-wet' look that took a sharp left turn after the infarction … yeah, that's what it was. The pain lines are deep. The blue-eyes thing was passed down a long line of blue eyes, and I've received more embarrassing compliments about them over the years than I can possibly count. I can't take credit for the blue. It's just the way the damn genes lined up. It's a pain in the ass sometimes, and I've felt my face turning scarlet under a lot of admiring scrutiny. All I can do is make some rude and clever remark to get people to shut up or go away. Preferably both.

There's a lot of gray mixed in with the brown hair on my head now, and there's a patch in the middle that keeps shedding like a Sheep Dog in the spring. Makes no difference. I don't have to look at it, even in the mirror, because I'd have to bend over in order to see it. So I don't bother.

As for the gimpy leg …

I hate when other people keep focusing on it, but it really is the focal point of my life. I can't possibly hide it, and its lack of utility is there for everybody to see. I spend a lot of time and effort taking care of it, catering to it, and treating it as though it's a fretful child, which it is. It just lays there like a dying lizard. Always in the way and immovable, except when it goes into spasm. The pain then is excruciating. The after-effects in the excited, damaged nerve endings make me want to scream and chop it off with a chain saw.

At the time of the infarction, they just let me lie there, out of my head and certainly in no frame of mind to make any decisions or even any sense. In those days, when anyone on the short side of forty came through an emergency room in acute pain, it was usually assumed that they were faking it and Jonesing for drugs.

Hours passed while I waited to be tended to, and the waiting room was like a rabbit warren. When I wouldn't shut up … _couldn't _shut up … they moved me to a bed in the ward and slapped on the ice paks. Nobody took time to check me thoroughly for _three freakin' days! _ I got lost in the insane shuffle of that frenzied weekend. I just added to the din by my intermittent crying and moaning. One orderly even told me I could win an Emmy for my portrayal of a cripple. In my delirium I wished him dead.

I finally diagnosed myself. The monitor readings said I was about to go into cardiac arrest and I began

to scream for help. After that I was taken seriously, but it was too late. In the end, they had to remove more than a pound of dead muscle from my thigh and it fucked up my life forever. And they had to go in twice. I was double screwed, and I never really forgave them for their bungling.

Would you?

For the next thirteen years I was on-and-off ambulatory. Fought like hell just to get out of a wheelchair. Finally graduated to crutches for six months and at last I was able to walk with a cane. My practice was nonexistent. No patient in his right mind wanted to be seen by someone who looked like me. Later, when the throbbing and the grotesque limping began to ramp up again, I started digging for alternative answers. I couldn't live in that kind of pain for the rest of my life!

In the end, I stole an experimental vaccine and injected myself. The stuff promptly killed all the rats in the lab and grew three small, suspicious tumors just above my right knee. I tried to keep it hidden and operated on myself, to disastrous results. I was rushed to the hospital by a woman I thought I loved. The tumors were surgically removed, along with another handful of necrotic muscle tissue.

I left the hospital too early, mad as hell, my leg bound up like a babe in swaddling clothes. I was still experiencing earthquakes of escalating agony. Definitely not in my right mind, I got into the old Dodge Dynasty and drove it like a raving maniac, right through the front wall of my girlfriend's house.

Bad move. The woman was incensed and the local constabulary got a little excited when she called them, screaming like a screech owl and vowing to have me dragged away in chains. I figured I'd better

get the hell out of there and lose myself someplace on the other side of the world ….

That night I packed my bags and flew to Miami, then on to San Juan. I bribed a ride to Barbados in a flying orange crate that scrabbled drunkenly through the air; flown by some grizzled old fart. That plane looked about a hundred years old and sounded like walnuts in a suitcase. The pilot was three sheets to the wind and I hung on for dear life until he finally landed the thing, bobbing like a cork, just inside the breakwater.

My leg was bleeding bucketfuls from a whole labyrinth of blown stitches. I on put a fresh pair of jeans

right over the bloody ones and toughed it out. Later I sequestered myself in a rented beach house and

avoided people like the plague.

The only thing I had going for me was a diminutive, black-skinned Jamaican by the name of Hooley, who rode an old Harley Davidson and did the mail run every day to the scattered beach cottages along the shore. "Hooley on the Harley". He had a lurid sense of humor, but mainly minded his own business. He brought me anything I was willing to pay a price for: booze, medical supplies and glossy magazine porn. As far as I knew, he also kept his mouth shut around the locals.

Hooley, bless him, brought me a stash of purloined Vicodin and bottle after bottle of local rum that tasted and smelled a lot like antifreeze, but kept the worst of the pain at bay. I paid him a bundle for every bottle, and stayed soused all the while he took my money and ran with it.

Pain? Hell … what pain?

I treated the wound on my leg, stayed pretty much off my feet, changed the bandages daily, kept it clean, kept it elevated. Even carved myself a crutch from a long piece of driftwood that floated onto the beach within my grasp. I laid around at the cottage and sometimes hobbled sadly out beside the ocean to sun myself like a beached walrus.

After three months on that island I sobered up, but still smelled like the fish I pulled out of the surf and looked like a full-blown member of Duck Dynasty. I rinsed the blood-encrusted blue jeans in the ocean and when they dried I pounded on them with a rock to beat out their tendency to be stiff as a board. The leg wound was bothersome, to say the least, and I had no mobility. My adductor muscles grew flabby because I couldn't exercise them. Every time I moved, the throbbing roared outward in waves, making it extremely difficult to get my right side to any kind of useful function.

I could have done with a good physical therapist. Or an Ingrid. But of course there was neither. The island had scores of gorgeous bronze-skinned babes, but nursing a stinking old crippled guy with an open wound was way beyond their ken, much less their interest or even curiosity. They were there to be sexy playmates for rich men with gobs of moolah. So I ended up doing all the scut work myself.

The blown stitches left a weeping hole where the most recent surgery had drawn the edges of the wound neatly together. Now it was ripe for infection and had to heal from the inside out. I did not want my lower limb to rot and fall off, so I had to clean up that mess as well.

I bathed the leg daily with antibacterial soap and antiseptic, and lubricated the tenderest areas with Neosporin. (All I had!) I applied huge gel-treated gauze bandages, brought to me by Hooley from wherever-the-hell, that covered the infarction scar also, since the newly reopened wound had torn it along the edges. It was not a pretty sight. I kept it wrapped with the widest Ace bandage Hooley could find, and as tight as I could stand it. Sometimes this helped alleviate the pain. Other times it made it worse.

As the weeks passed I could feel the beginnings of contracture in the tendons of my knee. I could have used some cortisone, but there was none of that either. I did bending and stretching exercises as best I could, but was severely limited because of the ferocity of the pain.

When I finally turned into a screaming, blubbering idiot that scared even the damned seagulls away, I had to stop. My heart rate almost doubled and I found myself gasping for breath. I knew I was risking a heart attack, and one of those I didn't need.

I backed off. Once a day I lifted the leg by grasping it beneath the knee with both hands, bending and stretching that way, which seemed to help a little, and with less agony. Gradually I began to leave the bandages off for a while during the day … unless the wind was blowing … and let the wound open to the air.

Eventually it began to get better.

Walking was still a major problem, but Hooley found me an old pair of crutches to make do. They were a little too short, and had no padding. I remedied that by duct-taping Turkish towels to the arm rests, which not only saved my underarms, but made the crutches taller and easier to maneuver.

Except I could never think of a way to keep them from sinking into the sand. Crutches with pontoons don't usually work very well …

Anyway, I was happy to toss my home made crutch out onto the beach, where it soon reverted to driftwood.

When I was well enough to walk with my cane again, I had become almost as dark as a native, and my hair and beard made me look and feel a little like the Wild Man from Borneo. With my back to the sun, and a pair of jeans cut away almost to the crotch, I worked like crazy to regain the mobility I had lost. All those weeks of inactivity sure hadn't done any good. My knee was still stiff, and I feared contracture. Sure felt like it.

By the time I was physically able to get out of there, I was hairy as Chewbacca, and pretty much smelled like him too. I vowed never again to allow myself get into a situation where I couldn't control my beard growth, or become as sand-encrusted as to resemble Lot's wife …

… and that's when the excrement hit the cooling device. So to speak.

I heard the old Harley coming up the beach. Hooley came by and told me the island cops were sniffing around. Asking questions about a crip doctor who was wanted by the police in the states and had been spotted in this vicinity some months before.

Maybe he hadn't been as discreet as I'd thought.

Anyway, it got my attention. I bid Hooley goodbye and flew the coop. The same grizzled idiot who'd flown me in, flew me out again to San Juan. Only this time around, we could have passed for brothers. If and when the island cops came scratching around that beach house for a crip doctor, they would find that he was long gone. All the accumulated mess had been burned to ashes on the beach.

I cleaned myself up somewhat at the San Juan airport and hopped the next flight to Miami. Then home. By that time, the hullabaloo about being dragged off in chains had died down. Way down. Nobody paid a shred of attention to an aging beach bum with a gamy leg.

I worked for a while, mostly doing research, but that got old. Healthwise, things were iffy again. I began to feel the steady tug of tendons shrinking and the pain upon movement that signaled the beginnings of contracture in earnest. And my right foot was showing signs of inversion. I was right. Very soon I was going to be unable to walk. Period.

Damn!

So here I lay this morning, sprawled out like a drunken sailor, soaking up the warmth of the moment. Thinking back to those agonizing times, and the more pleasant memories of an old friendship that I had run away from like a whipped dog.

Also remembering the more recent people I'd met who had cared enough to kick my ass and jump-start my morbid soul into deciding to live again …

Time to get up and be moving.

The Mensch is probably hiding behind a construction protuberance somewhere, waiting for me to show up so he can explain to me how astute he's been in discovering where I've finally gone to ground.

Only took him five-plus years …

I'll just add a few erudite insults to his vocabulary and a couple of surprise blips to his systolic blood pressure reading.

Hell, I haven't embarrassed anyone on purpose in a _long_ time!

23


	7. Chapter 7

DARKENED WINGS

Chapter 7

"The Jack Kerouac Chapter"

HE SAT THERE CALMLY AND REGARDED ME AS THOUGH I MIGHT BE AN INTERESTING CASE OF LUPUS. EXCEPT IT'S NEVER LUPUS. I GUESSED HE WAS WAITING FOR A RESPONCE TO HIS REMARK, BUT I WASN'T SURE I HAD ONE. I WAS RELUCTANT TO TRY TO ANSWER HIS SMARTASS REMARK WITH ANOTHER SMARTASS REMARK. IT WAS WAY TOO SOON TO ALIENATE HIM ALL OVER AGAIN …

"How've you been?" I said instead. I seated myself opposite and studied that wonderful, time-worn face.

"Sometimes good, sometimes lousy. How about you? You still pulling lackey duty in New Jersey? Or have you got on a 'Jack Kerouac' complex?"

"How long have you known I was here?"

"Couple of days. Got suspicious after the second time I spotted you watching me out your window. Took you long enough …"

"I quit the hospital to go on a mission. Looking for this friend I used to know. Nothing to do with Kerouac. The guy I'm talking about just up and disappeared one day and never let anyone know, and never came back."

"Maybe he really needed to get away." His continued ability to evade concerned comments was still just this side of incredible.

"Yeah. And maybe the rest of us missed him. And maybe I needed to find out what became of him. Care to speculate?"

"Nah, not now. Breakfast is here." Three up, three down, and I was out.

The waitress I'd seen accompanying him out front, now stood beside our table with a serving cart loaded with steaming platters of ham and eggs and pancakes with butter and syrup. Hot muffins. Fruitcups. Two steaming mugs of coffee and two small glasses of orange juice. She laid everything before us like an offering to a king … which I had a feeling he was. Somehow.

"On the house, Doc," she said. "You and L'il Doc here, have things to catch up on, so I won't bother you. Holler if you'd like heat-ups for the coffee."

She looked at me and grinned. "I'm Lily. Welcome to Etna, New Hampshire." She winked then, and turned and walked away.

I watched her go as she took the empty cart and headed back toward the kitchen. She was cute and moon-faced … and feisty. She was probably in her middle sixties. Very dark hair tied back in a bun.

Lots of wiry white bristles sprouting out of the mix.

I was also astounded to realize that he had obviously told her about me.

'Little Doc', hmmm? I liked it.

I smiled across at my dearest friend, nodded politely, and picked up my fork. "She's got your number, hasn't she?"

He glared.

Score one for the neo-Kerouacs among us!

24


	8. Chapter 8

DARKENED WINGS

Chapter 8

"Second Opinions"

HE FINGERED HIS SILVERWARE NERVOUSLY BEFORE FINALLY LOOKING UP AT ME OVER THE THIN GOLD RIMS OF HIS GLASSES. I LIKED HIS CASUAL LOOK. IT WAS DIFFERENT. AND IT FIT HIM WELL. THE TELLTALE FORELOCK HUNG BETWEEN HIS EYES LIKE ALWAYS, AND THE ADDITION OF THE NEW GLASSES ENHANCED THE SABLE GLEAM THAT RESIDED THERE. HIS DARK LASHES LOOKED AS FULL AS A WOMAN'S, AND I STUDIED HIM CLOSELY, GIVING SCRUTINY FOR SCRUTINY; REVELLING IN THE FACT THAT THE PASSING OF YEARS HADN'T SEEMED TO TOUCH THIS MAN. I WAS A LITTLE SURPRISED TO ADMIT TO MYSELF HOW MUCH I'D MISSED THE JUDGMENTAL GLEAM AND LOPSIDED SMILE.

There was sparse conversation as we dug into that amazing breakfast. I guess we were both ill-at-ease about what to say to one another, and rightly so. I had run away like a cat burglar from a squad car, but he had goaded me with Goody Two-Shoes yammering until I finally turned into that cat burglar ... running and running …

_Enough already!_

We both had many things to atone for and many fences to mend, and it was certain we couldn't do it in a public restaurant. I smiled silently to myself when he cleaned his plate; even the ham.

Finished, I took a $20 bill from my shirt pocket and slid it beneath my plate. When I looked across, my companion had had the same idea, and we left our simultaneous tips with nods and raised eyebrows. He had not forgotten how to spend money, but me … I'd had to learn.

When we finished the meal, both of us stole surreptitious glances at the other; glances full of fervent questions and taut speculations. We made ready to leave.

Instantly, Lily was beside me, as she always is when I visit. She knelt down and very gently lifted my foot away from the stool and the pillow, because she knew I couldn't do it easily by myself. My friend stood watching her, his expressive face a perfect blank, but his dark eyes were glistening and quickly turned in another direction. She helped me to stand and handed me the crutches. My bum leg twitched a bit, but did not go into spasm.

I retrieved my coat from the lobby, thanked Lily for the great breakfast, and I walked onto the front veranda while my two friends held the door open for me.

"You got stuff to do, or do you wanna come to my place?" I asked him.

He hesitated for a moment. "Since the only thing I really needed to do was find you, and since that mission is now accomplished, I guess we might as well go to your place."

I noticed immediately that he had begun to 'right-wing' me again; the same way Lily does, walking half a step behind and close to my right side.

So here he was, as though we'd never parted. He, still shielding me from harm, the same as years ago when we both worked at the hospital in Jersey and I didn't really need his protection. And I … gob-smacked by his sudden reappearance and trying not to show it … not quite sure I believed he was really beside me again … just as he is in my dreams every night, and I had not abandoned him to go running into shadows …

Since settling here and getting to know some of the townsfolk and learning to live with my leg the way it is, it behooved me to be a little more tolerant of those who wished to help. I still grit my teeth at the obvious solicitousness from some of them who are even older than me. Someday though, one of them might have to rescue me from a mess of my own making. More than once I've staggered a little, or lost my balance when a spike of pain hit and jolted me to the side. It's been nice to suddenly discover a steadying hand on my shoulder, or a strong body shoring me up to keep me from going on my ass.

So I tolerate it, sometimes even welcome it, and I'm often glad I've forced myself to appreciate their concern. For a stubborn fool like me, it's not been easy. I still have it on the tip of my tongue to yell: "Let me alone! I'm fine!"

For now, I was slightly amused at the easy way he fell back into the old habit of protecting the cripple. But I gritted my teeth and kept my mouth shut. If he noticed, he hasn't said anything yet.

We walked the short distance down the street to my front porch, where I had to stop for a moment to fumble my key out of my pocket. He did not patronize me, but waited at my side until I shouldered the door open.

The inside of my place isn't all that big, but it's comfortable and free of obstructions that would trip someone on crutches. The floor is hardwood and never been waxed. When I first moved in, I scouted around online until I found a couch that closely resembled the old leather two-seater from long ago. Sometimes you really do need something _that _familiar to latch onto, and the couch was it. The company delivered it in two days, and I discovered that it had the same roughened leather as my old one. It also came with the bonus of two plump Earth-tone pillows that delighted me no end. The only thing different is that this one has recliners at both ends. Convenient.

My Baldwin spinet is against the wall under the south-facing window, and there's a comfortable lounge chair cocked in the corner below the west one. I have only one end table and it's at the end of the couch, across from the TV where I always sit. It has a lamp on it that I brought along from my old place. The only other lamp besides the overhead, is a floor lamp that stands in the corner behind the chair.

I still have a stereo and some old vinyl, but those are in the bedroom, along with my acoustic guitar that I would cut off my other leg before I got rid of … which is a stupid thing to even consider right now.

Anyway, my companion still stands inside the front door looking around, probably searching for familiar vestiges of the last place I inhabited, and with which he was as familiar as the back of his own hand. Somehow I hope he is not disappointed, although any thought of that doesn't make much sense.

"I'll be right back," I said.

He nodded and continued to look around. I saw he was focused on the couch.

I went into my bedroom, removed my coat and hat and laid them on the bed. Picked up the bottle of new meds and palmed two of them. My leg was hurting again down its entire length, and he would surely notice if I didn't do something about it quickly. For some reason I wanted him to see a person with _some _amount of strength; not an invalid who was too weak and fragile to survive by himself.

I took the pills dry. Hadn't done that in a long time. Haven't had to. Nobody standing around staring and judging every move I make.

When I returned to the living room, he had taken off his jacket and laid it across the chair. He was at

red alert on the opposite end of the couch from the end table, and I had to smile. He's caught on fast, something he seldom did when I knew him before. He possesses a natural naivete that is endearing and exasperating at the same time. I have a strange feeling that things will be a lot different now if we see this little reunion through. I'm grateful he didn't give up on me. After the passage of a few years, I sometimes wondered if the small seed I'd left behind for him would ever bring forth fruit. But really, I should've known. He's like a wolverine. Once he sinks his teeth into something, not even Armageddon could deter him.

When I finally collapsed on my end of the couch and set aside the crutches, he was instantly at my side, hand on my forearm; a gesture neither of us would ever have tolerated before. His eyes were full of questions as he studied the distorted configuration of my leg.

I had to tell him.

Everything.

So I talked about my desperation to get away from everyone who'd ever known me. Dig in somewhere. Wait and see how long it would take for my leg to die. Make an effort to reinvent myself and stop leaving angry human beings in my wake of self-destruction. Become a person of honor, if that was even possible.

I would start over again where no one had ever heard of me or my lousy reputation. I needed to earn a living, and maybe garner a few real friends in the process. Lose the brittle coat of armor and become a respected and respectable man. Could I do it? I had no idea how, but I had to try. I had to learn how and when to keep my big freaking mouth shut.

And I desperately needed fresh eyes to take a long look at the declining condition of my leg. Like a second opinion, so to speak. I was quickly becoming more disabled, and in unrelenting pain from the enlarged scar-tissue mass and the encroaching contracture. Something drastic needed to be done soon, and I was definitely not the person to do it, as I'd so aptly proved. I'd boarded that ship before, and it sank right out from under me.

I was fully cognizant of probable amputation, and it frightened the hell out of me.

He sat and listened quietly to my unrelenting tale of woe. He made no comment and offered no sympathy. I hadn't expected any. I was the one who had screwed him!

When I finished, he sat and just looked into my face, as though those dark, disturbing eyes could draw the truth out through my skin like osmosis. Although my insides were churning and my head was pounding, I kept quiet until he was ready to speak.

To my astonishment, all he finally said was: "I really like the way you have your hair and beard trimmed. Takes years off your age. How long have you had it that way?"

I stared at him.

"_Seriously?" _

"Yeah. I like it a lot."

"Thanks … but did you hear _anything _I just said?"

"Every word. But you didn't ask any questions, so I didn't think you required any answers."

"Well, fuck you!"

He laughed. "Ahhh … that's more like it. Now I know you really are the same person as that jerk who was my friend years ago." The brown eyes looked at me with patented sincerity.

He must have gone back to school and got himself a Ph.D in the 'University of Snark'.

"Touche."

He smiled. Sadly, I thought.

"May I look at your leg? You can't possibly be comfortable sitting like that."

Was he serious?

"Unhhh … yeah, I guess. But why would you even want to?"

"Because it's what I do." He hit the control that reclined the sofa, and I felt myself leaning backward, further and further. "Undo your jeans and I'll help you out of them."

I did as he asked, feeling suspicious, inflexible and panicky.

"It's okay", he whispered. "I think you already know I would never do anything to hurt you."

I nodded quickly, quite incapable of further words. Tried to unbend and relax. Christ, it was difficult!

He removed the left shoe and then stood back, facing both my feet. He drew off the blue

jeans so smoothly that I was almost unaware they were no longer there. The huge rainbow scar laid bare, ugly and badly puckered right where he could see it full-on. But the facial expression I was expecting did not come to pass. I'd expected a moment of tightly reined disgust. What he offered instead was a scowl.

He stood at my side and looked into my face, not at the leg. "May I touch?" He did not seem in the least alarmed by the sight; only by my state of mind. Which at the moment, I was a little confused about myself.

I nodded. Self-deprecating remarks and wiseass comments came quickly to mind, but they did not seem appropriate. I took a deep breath and remained silent.

"I'm going to go wash my hands," he said. "I'll be right back."

I nodded again.

In my head, another angry flood of confused emotions battled for domination: shame, disgust, regret, embarrassment, expectation, despair. All warred for control. Why in hell was he here … putting his life on hold again for a crippled old fool like me? Should I tell him I'm about to become a guinea pig in a daring new experiment?

When he returned, his hands were those of a surgeon: white and pink and graceful; like a concert violinist preparing to visit the classics. He knelt by my side and placed a palm delicately on either side

of that huge disfiguring scar, probing lightly. The thing had expanded and deepened since my stupid escapades on the island, and was nearly the entire breadth of my thigh. I held my breath in terror as

his fingers probed around its gnarled edges.

The coolness of his hands was soothing, and at the same time, eliciting sensations of anxiety that snaked down my spine. I forced a tight control, lest inner vibrations manifest themselves as outer anticipation. I had not encountered such sensations in years, and was astounded that they were suddenly awakening now.

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. He was running his palms carefully over my calf, palpating the tibial ridge with the tips of his fingers, examining the lateral and anterior malleolar arteries, working his way to my foot. It hadn't taken long for him to discover the dearth of blood from the femoral artery feeding the tibial artery.

I saw his eyes narrow quickly when he took note of the lower temperature of my foot. This part of my anatomy is constantly alternating between neuropathic numbness or pulsing with bee-sting sensations or needle-like pricks that drive me nuts. And I'm not diabetic, so that leaves just one conclusion: my leg really is dying.

He was in complete 'doctor mode' now, and I had never before seen him so focused. The warmth of those brown eyes made me think of a worried parent with a sick child. His fingers gently enfolded and caressed; searched and diagnosed; pressed and released before they could cause pain, and I was in awe of his sensitivity. If this was the way he had always examined his little bald kids, then I had not paid enough attention or given him the respect he deserved. 'Boy Wonder Oncologist'. Wow! No wonder children adored him and came running for hugs when they saw him approach. I was beginning to feel like one of them.

He lifted my leg softly beneath the knee and made as though to rotate my foot. I ouched away from him. That was a no-no and acutely painful. He'd seen the biomedical anode insertion taped in place at my knee, but did not mention it. He knew what it was as well as I did. My foot was rigid; skin stretched over bone, and turned inward below the ankle. He held it lightly, took note of the nearly invisible spray wrap and the too-long toenails which didn't even matter anymore. Then he caressed the bony instep and brushed two fingers in a long stroke upward into the arch.

I moaned softly. Couldn't help it. He lowered my leg again and stood up. Grabbed one of the pillows and placed it in just the right location beneath my knee. "Your thigh is too warm and your foot is too cool, and you know exactly what's going on. You're okay for right now, I think, but the arteries are constricted. You know the repeated damages to your thigh have finally destroyed your leg. It has to come off. It _has _to. Soon."

I looked him in the face, as straightforward as I could manage. "Yeah. I know. That's where I was yesterday … having the final evaluation before they do the surgery."

He seemed surprised. "You're actually going to let it happen? Really? You?"

"Yeah. See, you picked a really great time to show up, you know that? The nasty old bastard is going

to have his damn leg chopped off above the knee and you show up just in time to watch the fireworks. Fortunately, Ed has an ace in the hole. I saw pieces of it. If it turns out that my stump is too short to accept a prosthesis, he has a hunk of innovative science that might work as a substitute. I would get to be Steve Austin … the six million dollar man."

"Are you serious? You'd risk your life with something like that? _Really?"_

"Yeah, really. If I don't, then I might as well not even _have _a life. Hopping around on one leg and a pair of crutches is not the person I can ever be."

"Oh migod, I don't know what to say."

"Then don't say anything. Just stand by me."

"You really want me to stick around? You're not going to tell me to get the hell away and let you alone?"

"Oh, don't act so damned surprised. I'm really trying to shed my asshole image, you know."

"_Really?"_

"Yeah … really!"

31


	9. Chapter 9

DARKENED WINGS

Chapter 9

"Checking In"

HE LOOKED AT ME WITH MANY QUESTIONS IN HIS EYES AS I SAT DOWN BESIDE HIM ON THE COUCH. AT THAT MOMENT IT HIT ME LIKE A FIST TO THE GUT, EXACTLY HOW MUCH THIS MAN HAD ALWAYS INFLUENCED ME. I WONDERED, NOT FOR THE FIRST TIME, WHETHER HIS OWN THOUGHTS EVER CAME EVEN CLOSE TO THAT. I HAD NEVER IN MY LIFE HAD ANOTHER FRIEND THAT COULD HOLD A CANDLE TO THIS OLD FIRECRACKER. HE HAS BEEN SIMULTANEOUSLY FLAMBOYANT AND COLDLY WITHDRAWN. OUTRAGEOUS AND HUMBLE. HE IS ODDLY GENEROUS AND AT THE SAME TIME, DOWNRIGHT UNLIKABLE. HE IS DECENT AND TENDER WHEN IT'S LEAST EXPECTED. HE HAS A GENIUS FOR THE DOUBLE ENTENDRE, AND FOR PULLING AMAZING INSIGHTS FROM SOME STRANGER'S OFFHAND REMARK. HE HAS ALSO MELTED MY HEART WITH A QUIET: "YOU LOOK LIKE YOU COULD USE SOME COMPANY…" AND IT SEEMS IMMENSELY SAD THAT WE'VE WASTED ALL THIS TIME …

"When is your next appointment?"

"That would be the day of the procedure. Ed said he'd call me when the A-Team is available and the next spot frees up. Shouldn't be long … a matter of days. My bag is packed …"

"Who's Ed?"

"That's the dude with the hack saw. Ed Thoreau. Got a real reputation. You've probably heard of him."

"Is he the one who saved the life of that rock star who got shot onstage?"

"He's the one. You'd never know the kid lost part of his cranium. Ed stuffed the hole with sawdust, covered it with Saran wrap, sewed him up and told him to change his hair style and dye it purple. Nobody would know the difference."

"'Filled the hole with sawdust'? Aren't you exaggerating just a _little?"_

"Maybe a little …"

"How do you know Dr. Thoreau?"

"He's my boss … that is when I actually work, which I haven't been able to do in a while. But he figured it out and hired me anyway. Actually, I got lucky. Couple weeks later, I stumbled onto an eccentric enzyme combination that looks favorable for some forms of leukemia. Turned out to be an excellent catalyst for a few unique biochemical reactions. So they're playing around with it now. And I think they keep me around because, if nothing else, I make 'em scratch their heads. We'll see."

"You mean you have a real job? One that you go to every morning and come home from every night?

"Did. When the leg started to really go south again, I was pretty much screwed. Lucky for me they thought I was an interesting case."

"You know you'll be in the hospital over Christmas."

"Doesn't much matter. Christmas is just another day as far as I'm concerned. No family ties … no loved ones to rush home to. I don't want to have this procedure done at all, but as they say, it is what it is. It's to the point where I don't have a choice."

"I know … and I'm sorry."

He was looking away, turning his attention to the light fixture on the ceiling, my coat on the chair. Anywhere but at me. I wished I knew what he was thinking. It couldn't be good.

"Well, enough about my sorry ass. What's new on your side of the planet?"

I watched him as he spoke, and I could see he was afraid of revealing too much; getting too close to where the short hairs were attached. Lines of stress deepened on his face. The one old habit that was much too ingrained for him to let go of yet: he was in all kinds of pain, mostly psychological right now, but still trying to cover it over.

I spoke a few more abortive sentences and suggested that he might do with some meds and a couple hours rest.

He gave me no argument, and I stayed close to his side as he struggled to stand and then stumbled toward his bedroom to lie down. I grabbed his jeans and sneaker and followed. Placed them over the footboard beside his coat and hat. The bed was large and dark and old and familiar. I thought I had recognized it from … back then.

His new meds looked like small yellow M&Ms. He took two. I had no idea what they were. He removed the rumpled button-down and relaxed against the pillow. I asked if he needed a blanket.

He smiled tiredly, eyes twinkling in that soft manner he always uses when conning someone. "Nah … plenty warm in here without one. Thanks, by the way."

"You're welcome." I had the damndest urge to lean down and hug him, but I resisted and just smiled back instead.

"I still have the same cell phone number I've always had," I said, "if you need me. Just call. I'm not far away."

"Damn!" He said. "Not me though. Sorry. Us bad guys change numbers a lot. I keep a list in my back pants pocket. Last number is the one I'm using at the moment. Dig out the paper and look it up."

He was still half smiling, and the old dimple in his cheek ran so deep that I could see it even beneath the facial hair.

I nodded. And shook my head in bemused disbelief.

Just that quickly he was asleep. The meds were potent. I took the second pillow from his bed and lifted his leg to place it gently on top with the knee slightly bent. There was a light flannel throw folded across the footboard, and in spite of his insistence to the contrary, I opened it and placed it across his lower body, up to his waist.

When I was satisfied that he would be all right, I turned to his blue jeans and searched the back pocket. There was the number on the back of a business card from a pizza shop. Anyone who didn't know his devious mind would never realize what those numbers meant. 7801. I grinned, assuming it was linked to a local exchange. I memorized it, put the card back, turned away and tiptoed out of the room.

The day was rapidly flying by.

Quietly, I took my leave of him. Flipped the lock and closed his door quietly behind me, hoping he would eventually offer me a key of my own.

When I entered the lobby of the Watson Inn, Lily was off duty during the lull after lunch and just before supper. I'm sure she was waiting for me to return in order to ask for news of him.

I walked over beside her at the counter and she looked at me with expectation.

"He's asleep right now," I said. "He mentioned a Dr. Thoreau over at Dartmouth-Hitchcock; the man who will lead the surgical team when they take his leg. It shouldn't be much longer. Probably in the next couple of days."

Her eyes went to banjo-proportions. "They're amputating his leg?"

"Uh … yes. I'm sorry. I thought you knew."

"No-o-o …"

"Please forgive me. Aren't the two of you friends?"

"We are. But he is a very private man. The friendship ends when I get too close."

"I understand."

And I did. He would not lay his burdens at the feet of anyone who did not already know about them.

_So like him!_

Her sad confession about his ongoing silence meant only that he had come to this place in order to hide out and remain secluded in anticipation of whatever might befall him. He'd long known the final outcome of his leg problem, and made the decision to wait it out as he'd always done with such things: independent, isolated and alone.

He'd been trying, over time, to reinvent himself; that much was obvious. I was now finding myself sole witness to an uncertain man attempting to replace a misanthropic bastard with something better. But as I'd noticed before, the person he'd once been was still tenacious as a bulldog, and simply didn't want to let go.

I turned back to Lily and touched her lightly on the shoulder. "I'm sorry you had to hear it this way. I didn't realize. But his leg will never get better. It's destroying itself from the inside out."

"He's not going to die is he?"

I tried to reassure her as best I could. "Lily, there's no reason his health will do anything but improve when his leg is removed. It's diseased … like when you have appendicitis … as soon as the appendix is removed, you get well quickly."

"But … he won't have a leg …"

"That's true. But after he receives physical therapy and after he gets used to it; has a prosthetic leg fitted and is back on his feet, he won't miss it. His most pressing problem will be learning a new sense of balance and learning to take care of what's left. He won't need crutches then … maybe not even a cane. And he won't be in pain any longer. A good friend of his once told him: 'It's just a damn leg!' He'll still be the same man … just a lot healthier. Okay?"

She nodded and thanked me, then hurried off into the dining room and away. I regretted giving her the news in such an abrupt manner. I also hoped that what I'd just told her had not been a complete lie and distortion of the facts.

I was suddenly weary and weak in the knees.

Of all times to burst upon the scene, I had arrived here not only unaware of his true physical status, but also unprepared for the events which were about to take place.

I was beginning to awaken to the fact that his life was changing, and mine had to change too if I wanted to remain his friend. No longer could I play the guardian of a tortured soul and purveyor of multiple sins. My new role must be one of complete support, but not a critic. A listening ear and a shoulder to cry on if necessary. He would have no time or patience for a dictator.

Could I do this? Could I learn to keep my mouth shut also?

It seemed as though I was about to find out.

I went to my room and stretched out on the bed to think …

Some time later I dropped off to sleep.

35


	10. Chapter 10

DARKENED WINGS

Chapter 10

"RX – Honesty"

MY PHONE CHIRPED INSISTENTLY AT 7:00 P. M. I KNEW IT WAS HIM. COULD SOMETHING BE WRONG? MY HEAD FELT FUZZY AND SO DID MY MOUTH. THE ROOM WAS DARK AS THE INSIDE OF MY SOCK, AND I WAS HUNGRY AS A BEAR. I SPOKE IN AN UNTELLIGABLE SLUR: A FEW RASPY WORDS THAT MADE ABSOLUTELY NO SENSE TO ME, AND PROBABLY LESS TO HIM.

"CAN YOU COME OVER?" HE ASKED, AND HIS TONE SCARED THE HELL OUT OF ME. I SAID: "ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?" AND HE SAID: "YEAH …" BUT HIS VOICE WAS SHAKY. HE WAS TERRIFIED ABOUT SOMETHING. I SAID: "I'LL BE THERE AS SOON AS I CAN, OKAY?" HE ANSWERED: "YEAH, OKAY, BUT BRING US SOME GRUB AND DON'T HAVE A HEART ATTACK OVER WHAT YOU SEE WHEN YOU WALK IN." I SAID: "WHA-A-T?" BUT HE'D ALREADY RUNG OFF.

I CALLED DOWN TO THE DINING ROOM AND PLACED AN ORDER FOR LEAN HAMBURGERS WITH ONIONS, TOMATOES, AND LETTUCE; ONION RINGS, AND TWO SERVINGS OF CINNAMON-CHUNK APPLESAUCE TO BE DELIVERED TO HIS PLACE IN A HALF HOUR. OH YEAH … AND TWO UNSWEETENED ICE TEAS. WITH LEMON. I THREW ON MY COAT AND HURRIED DOWN THE STEPS TO THE LOBBY, AND OUT ACROSS THE STREET …

I banged on his front door, wondering whether he was in any shape to answer. But I heard his voice from inside: "It's open."

I turned the latch and walked into his living room. He was wearing old PJ bottoms and an older tee-shirt. Seated in a lightweight wheelchair, right leg rest elevated, bad foot still bare, and no shoe on the other one. It startled me for a moment, and I thought he might have injured himself. He held up both hands, palms out in a restraining gesture. "I'm okay," he said. "But right now I'm too damn shaky to try to walk. Ed Thoreau called me about five o'clock. The surgery is set up for tomorrow morning at eleven, and I need to be there by seven. Could you … ?"

"Yes. Of course. But why such short notice?"

He smiled sardonically. "Christmas holidays and staff vacations. You know. It's the only time he could get his entire team together until after the first of the year, and he says it won't wait that long. He doesn't want to risk deep vein thrombosis or any of the other hundred stupid complications that might screw things up. Neither do I. My last couple of scans have been … iffy, to say the least."

"Then it's best we get on with it," I agreed.

"'We?'"

"Yeah. _We! _ As in … you… and me. I'm here. You're here. Neither of us is going anywhere. 'You and me!'"

His eyes were like darkened pools of misery and his voice was thick as library paste when he finally answered: " Thanks …"

I nodded; deeply affected by his pain. "Don't mention it."

He paused briefly. Heaved a shaky sigh. Looked up at me, gauging sincerity.

"I'm not leaving you tonight," I said. "It's as simple as that. Besides, I've ordered supper in, like you asked. Hamburgers, onion rings, Cinnamon-Chunky."

"Healthy stuff, huh?"

"Mostly, except for the rings."

"Are you starting to babysit me already?"

"Not in your wildest dreams!"

"Okay. Just checking."

That was when a polite knock came to his door.

I didn't ask. Just answered it. Took the food … which smelled wonderful. Paid for it. Slipped the kid a tip. Reclosed the door. He was sitting in the wheelchair glaring at me with a look of thunderclouds across his brow. His motions were changing like the seasons, only faster.

I ignored him for a moment, and then quirked a 'oneupmanship' smile. "Forgive me, father, for I have sinned."

He guffawed. And the gray clouds lifted.

We ate in his living room. I helped him get settled more comfortably in the wheelchair and placed a couch pillow beneath his knee. I knew he was a bit skittish with me touching him, but he refrained from snarky comments. I looked for and found a big metal pizza pan in the kitchen, which we placed between us. We ate our supper from there.

He cleaned his plate except for some of the rings. We sipped at the tea and regarded each other with shielded speculation. His hands were still shaking, but he'd relaxed somewhat since I arrived.

He was the first to speak.

"I did think about you over the years, you know. Wondered whether you were still in Jersey with the kiddies, or whether you might have branched out and tried to make something of yourself. Since you're here, I guess that you have. Branched out, I mean. I also wondered if you ever met wife number four. Guess not, since you're here … alone. And I'm answering all my own questions, aren't I?"

His right hand drifted to his knee and he rubbed at it slowly, almost as though using it as a distraction to keep from saying anything more.

"Do you need your meds?" I asked.

He looked at me quickly. His eyes: melting ice cubes with blue highlights. Then he relaxed again

with effort, and straightened. "No, not really. Peripheral neuropathy has settled into my foot and it's annoying. Give it a few minutes and it'll fade."

He looked away for a few seconds before he spoke again. "I screwed myself royally when I stole the experimental vaccine from the local cancer lab. It killed every rat they injected with it, and you know about the tumors that showed up above my knee.

"If I'd had the sense to stay off my feet after the patchwork surgery; used crutches for a couple of weeks. If I hadn't gone running away to Barbados, for crying out loud, my leg wouldn't be turning

into coyote carrion. But I had to get the hell out of there …"

"Hey …" I interrupted him softly. "Like you said to me a while ago: 'it is what it is'. Nothing can change it now. You'll get yourself admitted and have the surgery. And I'll just do what I always do … run around like a chicken with its head cut off."

He smiled at that, and planted his chin firmly on his chest. "You will indeed," he finally said. And that simple statement was loaded with a bare truth that we'd spent too long running away from.

Neither of us could sleep. The night crept on and we were both wide awake. We wouldn't be worth a wooden nickel by morning.

We killed time by catching up.

I told him that my dad had died more than two years before, followed a year later by my brother Danny. Dad's death was a heart attack. At his age, not unexpected.

But Danny … my younger brother … his death was brought on by a life of schizoid behavior and a host of other mental problems that caused felonious activities with a very long list of frightening consequences. He stopped taking his medications and returned to a life on the streets. Then he stole a gun. He went into a garbage-filled back alley downtown, and used it on himself. His viewing was closed-casket and we buried him next to dad and both paternal grandparents. It brought to a close an era of my life filled with uncertainty, guilt and fear for a brother I could never get to know.

I finished by mentioning that I had invested heavily in Twitter when it first opened up, and got lucky. The investment doubled, then tripled, and I accumulated a nice little nest egg. I didn't have to work if I didn't want to … but I liked to keep my hand in. And I had this special friend I needed to catch up with.

He sat in his wheelchair with his head down, hands gripping the armrests. When I finished, he looked up, misty eyed. It was not a picture of him I would ever get used to seeing, and it was upsetting. He had always been a vital, dominant personality; forceful and uncompromising. This person before me was an enigma. All his vital components were muted. The compelling eccentric sat silent and terrified. I wondered what I could possibly do to help him.

Nothing. At least not now.

He looked frightened out of his mind with no idea how to express that fear without exposing his vulnerabilities in all their horrible glory. I could see tension in his neck and in the center of his forehead as he strained with the effort of control. He was going to the hospital to have a very significant part of his physical body taken away and dumped in the trash. He had waged a long and aggressive battle to retain that body part. He had endured years of painful disability and an arthritic shoulder just to keep his body whole. And now the battle was over. If he wanted to go on living, the leg had to be forfeit. At this moment he couldn't face it.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered. " I knew about Danny, and I stayed away. I didn't support you. Why the hell did you come all this way to find me? Why the _hell_ are you here exactly at a time when I need your brand of schmaltz more than ever before? Why?"

"Because it was meant to be," I replied with a smile. "Serendipity, maybe. Not schmaltz. You're

my best friend, that's why. Because you mean more to me than any other human being I've ever known. Don't ask me to explain it, because I can't. Just accept it and let me help." I knelt in front of

his wheelchair and reached for his left hand, not quite touching, but offering the invitation anyway.

He looked at me as though in mortal combat with himself whether he would … or even _could_ … accept any of what I was offering. I saw his fingers twitch slightly, and then his hand rose away from its death grip on the arm rest. Clasping his cold digits lightly in my own, I looked over in an effort to meet his averted gaze. Slowly the wounded blue eyes circled downward and to the left, and he was looking at me full-on; perhaps still afraid of what I might do next. I did not move. The next move was his.

He remained silent, eyes still aimed downward. Finally I wheeled him into his bedroom. Assisted him out of the chair and into the bath. I closed the door to allow him privacy. He said nothing when he returned and sat down on the edge of the bed. I took the crutches and leaned them against the wall nearby.

He hissed quietly when he tried to hoist his legs up to the surface, so I clasped both ankles and assisted them across. He studied my face with a fathomless regard that roiled in the pit of my stomach. "A few months from now," I said casually, "you're going to be doing this by yourself. Just want you to realize … _nobody _is gonna wait on you forever."

He grunted. "Got it. Loud and clear. Be apprised of the fact that you could still stick around. I mean … to make sure I keep my ass moving. You might want to kick it once in a while. Also, the guys over at the hospital could probably use a Boy Wonder Oncologist … just for scut work …"

I laughed quietly; a controlled and contained exhale of pure relief. It seemed he did not intend to send me packing when my usefulness was over. "I'll keep that idea in mind," I said.

When I doused the light and prepared to let him alone to get whatever sleep he could before daylight, I heard the sheets rustle as his head turned in my direction.

"Stay," he said simply.

I gulped and hesitated a moment. I did not want to appear too eager. Slowly I walked around to the opposite side of the bed and sat down. The ambient glow from the window cast a pattern of light and shadow across his face that made the moisture in his eyes gleam like tiny diamonds. "Are you all right?" I knew I shouldn't have said it the moment it passed my lips.

"I'm fine!" He snapped, and the old persona was back in an instant.

We said, simultaneously: "I shouldn't have said that …" And we laughed and shook our heads.

I leaned against the headboard with a pillow behind my back and cradled him against my side. I let him talk because he needed to. I could feel the pent-up tension in his body and I knew he had a need to release it and still keep a tight lid on for appearance's sake.

"My mom died about two years ago too," he whispered. As he continued to speak, he clung to my hand with both of his own. His grip was astonishingly strong. I pretended it didn't hurt. "Also a heart attack, like your dad. I'd just talked to her on the phone the day before. She knew I wasn't well, and why, and how I'd got that way. She called me about once a week to ask how I was doing. I always told her I was fine; under a doctor's care and taking meds for the leg problem.

"I don't know which of us was the bigger liar: me for feeding her such a line of crap, or her for pretending to believe me.

"Mom and I finally made our peace. After she married Thomas Bell, there was a new tranquility that settled over her like a breath of fresh air. I didn't avoid her anymore because she was obviously happy and he had a lot to do with it. I had to readjust my way of thinking a lot during that time.

"It was Thomas who called me from the hospital. They'd rushed her there by ambulance, but it was too late. My mother also had an infarction, but she was too old and her heart was too weak. She didn't survive it.

"My first thoughts were full of anger and regret. If I'd been there, I might have saved her. That's an arrogant thing to say, isn't it? But that's how I felt: like it was my failure!

"At her funeral I cried real tears; the first tears I'd shed since I was a kid. I can't tell you how many times I wished you were by my side. I was in a wheelchair then too … this one in fact. Already driving the old beater using hand controls. So I couldn't have saved her even if I was there. I finally made my peace with Thomas Bell. He still thought he was my real dad, and I never told him different. Actually … he turned out to be a pretty decent guy.

"Now Thomas is gone too. About a year ago. I think he grieved himself to death. I inherited both their estates, which were considerable. Hell, I could buy half of New Hampshire if I had a mind to.

"Instead, I decided to see if I could bring my sorry ass back to life. I finally got up on crutches and ended up here. Stayed at the Inn and came to Dartmouth-Hitchcock to nose around … see what they had. Found out it was high-tech and well managed. 'State-of-the-art' so they say. I ran into Ed Thoreau while I was wandering around. We had coffee and he asked what-all my leg problem entailed. While we were talking, I realized who he was. Damndest thing: he recognized my grizzled puss too, and he didn't care. He said he could probably use some of that shitload of tangled information that was junked up inside my head. Ed's almost as genteel as I am.

"Anyhow, I introduced myself as 'Dr. Calloway', and that's what they've called me ever since. They helped me decide what to do about the leg, and now it's time to shit or get off the pot. I'm scared out of my mind.

"I bought this apartment building. Converted it to handicap. There are four units and they're all occupied. Guess I'll have to move out if I learn to walk okay on a fake leg."

Tears were tracking down my face as he finished speaking; his words sometimes slurred, sometimes hitching from deep in his throat. Gradually he relaxed his grip on my hands, and the blood sang in my veins as it hurried to resupply what had been constricted during his long verbal panic attack.

We sat silently for a long time, each of us caught up in old memories. Thinking of everything we had missed out on during this long and painful separation.

It was getting late, and tomorrow was going to be one of the _most_ traumatic days either of us had ever experienced.

For a long time it was very quiet in his little apartment. Both of us together again, but also truly alone. There was only one barrier still to be breached.

At last I couldn't stand it any longer.

He would not be caught dead initiating the next move, so it was up to me. I reached slowly behind him while he watched me; wary but silent. My arm worked its way carefully between his rigid back and the headboard of the bed as I drew my body into closer proximity with his own. There was some resistance at first, but then he relaxed by degrees and let it happen.

In the middle of that tense night I settled down until I was fully in line beside him. I drew up the covers and held him close to me with his face buried in the crook of my shoulder and his body hiccoughing with quiet sobs.

He was grieving for the part of him that would soon be missing.

And I?

Silently and secretly, I was giving thanks to … _whatever_ … for the prickly treasure I held in my arms.

41


	11. Chapter 11

DARKENED WINGS

Chapter 11

"Gathering Courage"

MY GOD!

SOMETIMES THIS ANNOYING FRIEND OF MINE SCARES THE SHIT OUT OF ME. MORE THAN THE GOODY-TWO-SHOES FIXATION. MORE THAN HIS TENDENCY TO WANT TO PLAY DEFENSIVE END FOR THE OLD QUARTERBACK. HE SCARES ME MOST OF ALL BECAUSE HE'S NOT KIDDING.

I THINK IF I WERE ACTUALLY TO FALL INTO SOME KIND OF DANGER, HE WOULD MOVE HEAVEN AND EARTH TO PROTECT ME. HE WOULD OFFER HIS REPUTATION, HIS WORLDLY GOODS, EVEN HIS LIFE IF HE THOUGHT IT MIGHT PRESERVE MINE. I REALLY DON'T WANT TO BE RESPONSIBLE FOR THAT KIND OF DEVOTION. I WOULDN'T KNOW HOW TO RESPOND OR HOW TO RETURN IT IN KIND. THAT'S SCARY TOO. JUST BECAUSE, IF NOTHING ELSE, I'M SIMPLY NOT WORTH THAT KIND OF SACRIFICE.

The two of us lie here together on my bed like a pair of star-crossed lovers who have just discovered they can't live without one another. My head is on his right shoulder and his fingers keep threading through my hair in a manner so gentle that I feel like a little kid being lulled back to sleep after a bad dream. Actually, I was behaving like a fool; feeling sorry for myself and bawling like a schoolgirl who has just found out her boyfriend is moving a thousand miles away and she knows she will never see

him again.

And I was thinking: 'maybe I _am _the schoolgirl and my damaged leg the boyfriend.' I am torn, sad, worried, scared and angry.

They're going to cut off my leg and it will be gone forever. I can't open my mind enough to include the concept, and I can't fit my humanity around the obvious consequences. My intellect assures me that everything will be all right. The pain will be gone and I will learn to walk on an artificial leg. I won't need a wheelchair or crutches. After a few months, maybe not even a cane. My shoulder will not scream at night from leaning so heavily on the damned cane that osteoarthritis has set in. It will be better. _I _will be better. But I am still afraid.

My friend holds me close and whispers my name … the real one … and hovers over me as though I'm about to take my final breath. His body trembles and he sighs, trying as best he can to maintain the stiff upper lip.

"Shhhh …" he sighs, and rocks me gently. I am exasperated and gratified at the same instant. I have never been cared for in this manner by anyone who is not my mother. I can only hope his perceptive mind does not know the extent of my need.

He would smile and tell me he'd always known I was born with a streak of 'good guy' in me. And I would deny it as though the empty words of denial were my only badge of courage.

I have been a doctor all my adult life. I was a damn good doctor once. Good enough to save lives. Good enough to present advanced theories and logical speculations at medical conferences. I've had some important articles appear in important publications. I was a regular contributor to JAMA.

My breakthrough techniques were emulated; my theories widely acknowledged. My name is known

all along the eastern seaboard, and it is spreading as I speak. I have written two advanced text books on Nephrology and one on Diagnostics. There are notes in my laptop for a second diagnostics volume.

I am _still_ a good doctor. I will _always_ be a good doctor.

But I am not a good man. Fate played a dirty trick on me. Turned me into a cripple. I did nothing to deserve it, and I took out my chronic pain and overwhelming rage on every person I came into direct contact with. I became arrogant and unapproachable. I reverted too easily to the base instincts this species was created with, and did nothing to curb them. I became addicted to the strong medications I was forced to take to curb my pain! The more I took, the more I needed. And still it was not enough.

I resorted to deception. Lied. Stole. Alienated anyone who tried to help me.

I played one friend against another until I found I had no more friends.

Save one. And then I didn't have that one either.

I added alcohol to the mix. I turned hard. Calculating. I had my eye on a woman I wished to seduce. We were even together for a short time. Then, wisely, she pulled away and looked elsewhere for companionship. During this time my leg went from bad to worse.

I went to rehab. Twice. The first time I cheated and had someone smuggle Vicodin in. The second time I nearly killed someone.

Back on the street I was in trouble with the police. In a moment of uncontrolled rage, I drove the Dynasty through the wall of the home of the woman who had rejected me.

That's when I ran. I ran to a South Seas island. And my leg got worse. It damaged itself even as it tried to repair itself. It happens. My own blood became toxic to its cells, and it destroyed many of them. After they'd removed the second chunk of tricep, as well as the tumors, my blood began to poison me. It required better healing time than I could give it. I almost died, and didn't even care. It was way, _way _ beyond time for something more drastic.

I came back. Wandered around like a homeless man and slept a few nights on the streets. I had to find a place to live quickly when my leg worsened to a point that I could no longer walk without crutches. Somehow I ended up in New Hampshire and got lucky. This time I met a doctor who encouraged me to take care of myself. I didn't trust him at first, but something about him drew me in. This time I didn't panic and run like a coward. He examined me and told me the leg would eventually have to come off. I took a serious inventory of my crappy existence and made a decision that changed my life.

Slowly, I began to do a few things differently. Tried being nicer to people. Cleaned myself up. Cut my filthy hair, trimmed my beard. Got rid of the "Chewbacca" look. It was difficult. But like members of AA … I tried it a day at a time.

The friend whom I thought was gone forever … has found me.

I'm having my leg amputated tomorrow.

Maybe today, depending on what time it is.

And here we are.

I shift my body a little and look up into his kind face with the straight nose and the sable eyes and the shaggy brows. His glasses are halfway down that aristocratic nose, and he is nodding. His fingers are still tangled in my hair, but they are at rest. His breaths are deep and steady and even.

I reach up to touch his cheek while he can't catch me at it, and his eyelids slowly rise. Questioning.

"Hey." I speak softly.

"Hey." He mumbles in return. "Better?"

"Yeah," I say. But I'm lying.

"They're gonna cut off my leg …"

"I know," he says.

What else _is _there to say?

It is time to get up. Get moving.

Time to face the executioner …

44


	12. Chapter 12

DARKENED WINGS

Chapter 12

"Trip to the Slaughter House"

HE LOOKED AT ME WITH A GUILTY, SULKY EXPRESSION OF INJURED INNOCENCE. I SMILED BACK BECAUSE ALL I COULD SEE WAS A SCRUFFY FACE THAT REALLY NEEDED A MORNING SHAVE AND TRIM. HIS HAIR WAS MY FAULT THOUGH. MESSING MY FINGERS THROUGH IT HAD TRANSFORMED HIM INTO A GRIZZLY BILLY GOAT. I WATCHED THE SPARKLE IN HIS EYES TURN TO AN IRRITATED GLITTER WHEN I DID NOTHING MORE THAN JUST STARE AT HIM AND GRIN.

"What is so goddamned funny?" He demanded. And in the saying, his scruffy appearance and instant mood change into 'demanding and pissy', made me think of Jim Henson's Muppets: disheveled, wide-eyed and angrily endearing.

At the same time I was hearing his "before" voice. The demanding growl of the person he used to be. The man in pain. The man who couldn't stand himself.

"Shhhhh …"

My index finger formed a vertical barrier against his lips, and I laughed as he quickly drew away. "It's okay. Really. When you look at yourself in the mirror, you'll understand."

"What?!" His scowl deepened the furrows between his eyes as he glared at me.

"Never mind," I told him. "It's almost 5:00 a.m. We should be getting around. Didn't you tell me we should be there by seven?"

"Yeah."

"Let's go then."

It was difficult watching him extricate himself from the bed. He hitched to the left and rolled over onto his side, and then pushed to a sitting position with both hands flat on the mattress. From there his legs slid slowly off the side as he straightened himself upright. He grasped the crutches from the wall where I'd leaned them the night before and levered to his feet. He held his right leg carefully to the side so his foot wouldn't touch the floor. Within a few seconds he'd disappeared into the bathroom. I heard the click of the medicine cabinet and then water running. First order of business: meds.

"I'm going over to take a shower. Anything you need before I go?"

"No," came the answer. "I'm fine. Been doing this for a while, you know. Go ahead."

I pulled on my clothes piece by piece and walked out to the living room. Last night's supper residue still lay strewn about, so I gathered it up and took it to the garbage can in the kitchen before I put on my coat and went out the front door.

Christmas lights still blinked merrily along the deserted street as I hurried down the block and headed for the Inn. A cold wind reached icy fingers inside my unbuttoned coat as I trotted along.

The night clerk at the front desk looked up and nodded a greeting as I blew through the door, rushed past and up the steps to my room.

It was 5:30 a.m. when I walked through the door and stripped off all the clothing I had just put on. The water was hot and comforting and I let myself languish in the shower with the rivulets cascading across my body in a soothing stream.

Within thirty minutes I was squeaky clean, shaved and blow-dried. I dressed casually again; loafers, jeans and dress shirt. I tossed the dirty stuff in the hamper in the corner. My coat lay across the bed.

I checked my wallet, cell phone, a fat wad of cash and my car keys. He wasn't allowed any food before his surgery, and I didn't plan on ordering anything either in deference to him.

I left again and walked over to the Inn's parking lot. The VW squatted silent and dark, and I unlocked the driver's door and climbed in. I hoped the narrow seat would slide back far enough to accommodate his lanky body, his bad leg and the crutches until we arrived at the medical center. I could not picture myself trying to drive an ancient Dodge Dynasty with hand controls. It was too much to even imagine.

The Beetle started easily on the first try in spite of three days idle and the cold weather. I let it run awhile until it warmed up on the inside, then pulled the gearshift down, turned on the lights.

I ran the passenger-side tires onto the curb in front of his place, turned on the flashers, dimmed the headlights down to the markers, and hurried up to his door. I hoped it was unlocked, and thought again about a key of my own.

6:05 a.m. I walked in his front door. He'd left it unlocked for me.

He was sitting on the couch. Dressed, but not quite ready. His coat and hat were there and he wore an old tee shirt, beat-up jeans and a sock and shoe on his healthy foot. The useless one was still bare, and pale and sickly looking and hung crookedly off the edge of the couch. The crutches were propped by his side.

He looked up at me sideways with an odd expression. "When I looked in the mirror," he said, "I saw what you were grinning about awhile ago. Sorry I got hot under the collar at you."

I smiled back at him and offered some casual remark … "you didn't think I was going to let you win 'em all, did you …?"

He didn't move to put his other sock on, and the mood shifted somewhat when I directed a questioning look at his foot. He shrugged. "Hurts like hell this morning," he said. "Wears me out. My knee won't bend far enough that I can get the sock on, and it's sore to the touch … neuropathy kicking in again. No big deal. It won't be giving me trouble much longer. Could you … ?"

I knelt in front of him and took the heavy woolen work sock he held in his hand. He seemed almost ashamed to ask for the help.

His foot was rigid; the curvature advancing, it seemed, by the hour. He gasped when I placed my hands upon it to draw on the sock. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Not much to tell. They'll take care of it at the slaughter house …"

_(*Jesus!*)  
_

I saw that his hands were shaking again, and hoped he wouldn't have to go through the agony of another panic attack. He held his breath as I eased the sock gently over his foot and up onto the calf.

He hissed his pain loudly through his teeth and I let my hand rest on his knee a moment until he gathered himself again and took a long ragged breath.

"Are your meds not holding it off anymore? Or are you just plain freaked out of your mind?"

He was too surprised at the way I quantified the question to be pissed off by the blunt way I'd said it. It's an extraordinary experience to see a man in pain lose it to the point of laughing out loud at the same time.

I reached down to clasp his cold, unsteady hands into my own. He was like ice, even though the apartment was warm. I could feel tremors through his body emanating from down deep. His laughter was forced, and I knew he'd quickly figured out I was trying to ease the moment and allow him to calm himself.

"Concentrate on letting yourself relax," I said. "Let it go. Reach down inside and tell yourself to relax on _purpose. _Take another deep breath and let it out like you're swimming; rising up to the surface of the water. Let go of the panic. You're not alone anymore."

He nodded and did as I asked. "I know I'm not alone, but my gut reaction still sees you as some crazy dream that's going to just up and pop like a bubble. I can't get it under control and I feel like a coward and a dunce."

"You're neither of those things, and I swear to you; I'm not a dream. I might be your worst nightmare soon, but I'm not going anywhere. I'll be right beside you. When you wake up, I'll be one of the first faces you see, other than the scrub nurse. Honest."

I rose to sit by his side on the couch. He gazed at me intently with those shielded icy lights behind the blue, and I nodded in what I hoped was reassurance. His mouth was open a few centimeters, the way he used to appear when bouncing theories around in his head, or steeped in profound concentration.

I saw the lights shifting again in his eyes as he gathered himself.

His arms rose almost languidly and his hands slowly reached for my shoulders. I held my breath as he drew us close into what ended up as a hug of magnificent proportions. This was absolutely _not _the man I had known five-plus years ago, who would rather be caught dead than be seen locked in the embrace of another male.

I hugged him back, and while we sat there my cheek came into contact with his scruffy face, once again shaved and trimmed. He smelled rather like a tobacco barn in autumn, sprinkled with a hint of mint and cinnamon. I figured he'd probably fortified himself with a cigar while I was across the street.

When we finally parted without a word or a look, I was reluctant to let go.

He fit into the VW just fine, much to my relief, with plenty of room for his legs, the crutches and the blue backpack.

He informed me that he had packed his oldest jeans, cut down to shorts. I gasped at that. It was _December, _for godsake!

But he just glared at me. "For P.T."

"Oh …"

So I let it go. Maybe he was trying to cut the threads that held the panic button …

He'd also chucked in a couple of tee shirts and some sexy bikini underwear. (Because he wasn't sure how much stump would be left.) And half of a pair of running shoes. (I hoped he'd got the left one,

not the right.) Also his new cell phone and an old Gameboy. I smiled at this, thinking that in some

alternate reality I was still in the company of a scared, conflicted thirteen-year-old.

Christmas lights in the tiny town diminished behind us like railroad tracks that vanish to a single straight line beyond the horizon. There was little traffic at this time of the morning, and the sun was nowhere near the eastern meridian at 6:45 a.m. The final hour of night enfolded my little car like a dark glove. The sky was mottled with blotches of roiling wind bundles, and I could feel the presence of snow clouds gathering overhead like lurking giants.

Neither of us spoke again, and the noisy little car made the not-quite five mile trip in a tad less than fifteen minutes.

The impressive front façade of Dartmouth-Hanover Medical Center was lit up with arc lights and bright Christmas lights and Santa Clauses and reindeer, and lighted signs that gave directions to other areas of the facility. Damned urbane for this little corner of the world, I thought.

"Just pull up to the front of the main building," he said.

Which I did.

"Now what?"

"Keep your shirt on," he replied.

His nervousness had vanished.

A man pushing a heavy duty wheelchair was emerging briskly from the front entrance and heading toward us. I got out of the car and hurried around to the passenger side. He could probably use both

of us to help him disembark and get settled into the wheelchair.

"Hi Doc," the guy said, putting the chair's brakes on and reaching to open the passenger-side door.

"Hi Joe," he answered. "This is my brother Kent Calloway. Joe Garrett."

The introductions were made. What we did with them was up to us.

"Hi Joe. Nice to meet you."

"Yeah, me too Kent. Let's get this man inside and out of the cold."

He didn't have a chance to reach for the crutches or the backpack. Joe lifted from one shoulder and I the other. We eased him into the chair and away they went.

"I'll have somebody put your car in the lot," Joe hollered over his shoulder as he sprinted for the door.

I grabbed the backpack and ran to keep up. The VW stood with the door open, the lights on and the engine running.

49


	13. Chapter 13

DARKENED WINGS

Chapter 13

"Beyond the Double Doors"

THE MAIN ENTRANCE OF DHMC IS ON AN ELECTRIC EYE, SO WHEN THE WHEELCHAIR WITH ME IN IT GOT CLOSE ENOUGH, THE DOORS FLEW OPEN LIKE THOSE ON THE BRIDGE OF THE _ENTERPRISE_ WHEN KIRK WAS IN ONE HELL OF A HURRY.

INSIDE, JOE BROUGHT US TO A STOP. HE ASSISTED ME IN REMOVING MY HEAVY COAT AND PULLED A SOFT GRAY BLANKET FROM THE POUCH ON THE BACK OF THE WHEELCHAIR. THIS HE UNFOLDED AND PLACED AROUND MY LEGS AND UP ALMOST TO MY CHEST. HE SAID: 'ARE YOU ALL RIGHT, DOC?' AND

I SAID 'YEAH', AND WE CONTINUED ON AT A SLOWER PACE UNTIL THE THIRD ONE OF US HAD A CHANCE TO CATCH UP.

THE VESTIBULE OF THIS HOSPITAL, AS IT ALWAYS DID, DAY AND NIGHT, SWARMED WITH ACTIVITY. HOSPITAL PERSONNEL IN SCRUBS DARTED AROUND LIKE TETRAS IN A FISH TANK. I HAD SEEN IT BEFORE. PPTH HAD BEEN LIKE THIS TOO, BUT I KEPT A TIGHT LIP ON THAT. SOMEHOW EVERYONE MANAGED TO KEEP FROM RUNNING OVER EACH OTHER.

TODAY IT WAS CLOSE TO SHIFT CHANGE, AND EVERYONE NEEDED TO GET ON-POST IN A HURRY.

AROUND THE OPPOSITE END OF THE ROOM WERE SIX ELEVATOR BANKS, ALL GARISHLY DECORATED WITH ANGELS AND SANTA CLAUSES AND REINDEER. THEY PINGED AND BONGED LIKE TOY MARIMBAS AS THEY ARRIVED ON STATION, DROPPING OFF BUSY DOCTORS, NURSES, ORDERLIES; LOADING UP OVERCOAT-WRAPPED SPECIMENS OF FROZEN HUMANITY REPORTING TO FIRST SHIFT.

TODAY I'M NOT AN EMPLOYEE, BUT A PAYING CUSTOMER, AND I'M HUDDLED IN THE WHEELCHAIR NERVOUSLY AS JOE HEADS US OVER TO THE LEFT IN THE DIRECTION OF ONE OF THE ELEVATORS MARKED FOR THE TOP TWO FLOORS: THE OPERATING THEATRES. I CAN SEE THE DESIGNATIONS ENGRAVED BOLDLY INTO THEIR DOOR PLATES. I'M SUDDENLY SHAKING LIKE A LEAF AGAIN. BOTH

MY COMPANIONS NOTICE AND THE WHEELCHAIR SLOWS.

My friend kneels by my side and presses a warm hand to my shoulder. "Deep breath," he says quietly. He's not sure how far the 'Kyle Calloway' charade has spread around here (if he only knew!), but he would much rather have Joe believe I'm in pain; not about to have a panic attack. I _am_ in pain, but he doesn't need to know how much. I nod in slow rhythm and fill my lungs to capacity with warm, filtered air. I whistle out between my teeth like they say in the magazines … and which nobodyever freakin' thinks about while gripped with a case of shit-and-shivers.

Slowly I get a handle on it and nod. I see Joe and "Kent" nod at one another also. They've already figured out a method of silent communication that they think I don't notice. Joe begins to move the chair forward again and into the hungry mouth of one of the elevators emblazoned with the huge letters: "O. R."

My stomach drops out as we ascend, and my head echoes with the same impassioned incantation over and over: "… cuttingmylegoff – cuttingmylegoff - cutting mylegoff …" until I feel tears streaming from my eyes and rolling down my cheeks. I am angry with my lack of control, but it won't stop.

The elevator halts and the door opens onto another busy waiting area where the large windows are filled with nothing but gray morning sky and threatening clouds.

In the distance a helicopter zooms past, multicolored lights flashing. I blink and it's gone.

I see light blue walls with cartoonish paintings of old cars and picnickers and dogs and kids and verdant woodlands. There is Muzak playing quiet tuneless Christmas music that clashes with the décor and grates on my nerves like fingernails over glass. I feel like I'm about to throw up.

There is a long shiny counter looming across the area from where the elevators load and unload, and Joe moves us up to the nearest unoccupied space to await our turn. I scowl. Two spaces to the left is a curvy babe with hair like spun gold and eyes like emeralds. But the one Joe heads for is a lady who is built like a Greyhound Bus. She has a pale, oval face and a ring of gray hair. Too much black mascara encircles a pair of equally black eyes which are circled in turn by huge black horn-rimmed glasses. She is piercing us in place with a stare like medieval spears to our hearts.

I don't mean to be rude … but Kee-hrist! I just can't seem to cut a break.

This lady, however, is an accommodating soul, and when she smiles at me, I see the harshness of her features expand into a smile of welcome. I see no aversion and no pity; just businesslike attention and concern and I squelch the attitude and look up at her with more respect. I push the blanket down to my lap and struggle to sit up a little straighter in the chair.

She already knew who I was and why I was there. "Good morning, Dr. Calloway. Your papers are all

in order and Dr. Thoreau has asked me to alert him as soon as you arrive. He's in the back right now, making preparations for your procedure. I'll call to tell him you're here. Would you please take Dr. Calloway into the waiting room, Dr. Garrett, until the nurse comes for him? Dr. Thoreau would like you to go on back as soon as you arrive." Joe nodded and turned the chair around. We all retreated to the back of the room. I saw Kent's eyes widen as he realized Joe was a doctor and not an orderly. Joe waved and winked and headed down the hallway.

I smiled smugly and looked around, surreptitiously wiping the moisture off my face. There were a few people seated in chairs grouped in a semi-circle around a big TV on the wall and tuned to CNN. The volume was set too low to hear anything from where we were. There was one other wheelchair besides mine, and a lady in a chair with her arm in a sling. Plus hovering relatives or whatever. Idly I wondered if they were here this early in the morning to face the same crap that I was.

It couldn't have been more than thirty seconds later that a tall pretty nurse appeared at the head of a long hallway and announced my name. I wondered why I was being called ahead of the others in the room … but I was having the 'procedure' and they had to wait. I'd finally caught the attention of a looker though …

Kent swung my chair to the right and at the same moment, tapped a reassuring hand on my shoulder.

"He certainly had me fooled," he said.

"I know …" And I needed that small smile that ensued, just to bolster my courage.

The pretty nurse led us down a long hallway lined with examination rooms; some occupied, some not. I thought of the hospital back in Jersey, and the exam rooms I used to crawl into to hide … but only for a moment.

At the end of the hallway we turned the corner to the left and there suddenly loomed a pair of heavy, stainless steel double doors that looked like they could have repelled a Klingon attack. These things were standard equipment in every hospital operating theatre I'd ever entered.

Our friend the pretty nurse elbowed a large servo on the wall and the doors yawned open like the parting of the Red Sea. I swallowed the lump that formed in my throat and began psyching myself up

to undergo the most frightening ordeal that a man could possibly imagine. (This man, anyway …)

We entered a large stainless steel and stark-white room filled with diagnostics equipment that I would have given my left nut for back in the day. I looked around, recognizing most of it, and for those few eye-popping moments I almost forgot what I was there for.

But that didn't last long.

The smells of disinfectants, chemicals and antiseptics were at the same time, off-putting as all hell; yet I felt oddly at home with them and familiar. I had lived my entire adult life surrounded by them.

But the creepy crawlies persisted because I wasn't here as a doctor and it was impossible to remain disinterested and impersonal. I was the patient this time, and a cowardly one. I pictured all these sharp needles and shining blades penetrating my skin and sinew and muscle, and even bone. The images they invoked made me feel as though every drop of blood was being drained from my body and I was about to slide down a long dark hole into oblivion.

Ed Thoreau walked into the space a short distance behind us. I didn't see him until he came around the side of the wheelchair and bent down to grin in my face.

"Well, I'll be damned!" He chortled. "Here you are, in the flesh. I thought you might be halfway to some sleazy island by now." The grin widened.

I glared at him. "Screw you, Sawbones!" For some reason I felt the black cloud begin to lift away and a sense of relief return me to reality. I smiled in spite of myself. Funny how the appearance of a dude who has kicked your ass multiple times could pull you out of your doldrums by the scruff of the neck … so to speak.

From directly behind me I heard a quiet chuckle of amusement, and I didn't have to guess who the hell _that_ was either!

Kent put the brakes on the wheelchair and stood listening to Ed Thoreau giving orders and pointing fingers like an overseer on a peanut plantation. After a few minutes, Joe Garrett arrived in a white lab coat. "I'll be seeing you later when they get you shaved and shorn," he said. He touched my shoulder and turned and left again.

"See ya," I croaked.

It was now time to get me prepped for the surgery. Zero hour was here and it was time to either piss or get off the pot. (I would rather have pissed and gone home, but I didn't say so.) Very quickly I made formal introductions between Ed Thoreau and Kent Calloway … which both of them took about as seriously as though I'd just introduced Oprah Winfrey as my mother.

The pretty nurse just smiled. She wouldn't have known the truth of what was happening if it had bit her on the … never mind.

I kept a pretense of calm hovering over me like a personal force field, and had no idea where it was coming from. Maybe my body was gradually turning to petrified rock.

Three orderlies assisted me from the wheelchair to a gurney behind a privacy curtain, and the pretty nurse watched every move they made. When the sock was carefully removed from my right foot, it was all I could do not to scream. They asked if they should cut off the jeans. I growled "No! Just do it!" They were so gentle I barely felt it … but my foot knew … and it relayed the message in no uncertain terms. They assisted me to don a tent-like, puke-green hospital gown. First step in a long string of

humiliating preliminary proceedings.

Shortly I found myself watching warily as the curtain closed completely and I was being prepped for my first-ever pruning of my nether regions. I lay back nervously, feeling like a shy piano pupil at my first recital. The pretty nurse gave me a pill in a paper cup, which I didn't even look at. Just gulped it.

I felt a needle penetrate the inside of my elbow, and all of a sudden I was more relaxed and more accommodating than I'd ever been except twice in my life. In circumstances exactly like this ...

Somebody was manipulating my family jewels, but for some odd reason, nothing was responding. My leg and foot pain were diminishing rapidly. Aha! I was being shaved. Shorn. Denuded. Sheared like a sheep. Prepped like a poodle. Couldn't care less.

_*WOW! I just got a shot of happy juice.*_

They were using a straight razor! *_Holy crap!_* But they were good at it. They didn't slice anything off.

Afterward I was covered with a wonderful heated blanket. I could hear the curtain being snicked back. I could hear wheels turning; equipment carts trundling, metal clickings, air hissing, mechanical-type whirrings. I was vaguely aware of my body being manipulated. I tried to watch, but couldn't see much because most of it was beginning to blur and ascend far away from my perception. I sighed and adjusted myself to the most comfortable position possible. My leg was calm and my foot felt like it wasn't even there. Soon, it wouldn't be …

This show was about to get on the road.

53


	14. Chapter 14

DARKENED WINGS

Chapter 14

"Kent Calloway Checks In"

WE CAME OUT OF THE ELEVATOR ON THE SECOND FLOOR. NO COMPASSIONATE LADIES WAITING TO GREET US UP HERE. EVEN THE AIR SMELLED DIFFERENT. JOE THE ORDERLY TURNED THE WHEELCHAIR TO THE RIGHT AND ENTERED THE CORRIDOR. I SAW KYLE STIFFEN AND PRESS BACKWARD IN HIS SEAT, AS THOUGH BY HIS TENSE BODY LANGUAGE HE WAS DENYING THE FRIGHTENING TRUTH OF HIS OWN

DESTINATION.

I GULPED, SWALLOWING THE LUMP IN MY THROAT.

I FOLLOWED THE WHEELCHAIR DOWN THE LONG WELL-LIT HALLWAY THAT REMINDED ME OF THE LAUNCH PATH FOR A GUIDED MISSILE. A TALL ORDERLY AND BRANDY THE NURSE, WHOSE NAME I'D LEARNED ONE FLOOR DOWN, AND WHO HAD JOINED US MID-JOURNEY, WEREN'T LOSING ANY TIME.

KYLE WAS BEGINNING TO GRIP THE LEATHER ARMRESTS WITH HANDS CURLED SO TIGHTLY THAT HIS KNUCKLES WERE NEARLY TRANSPARENT. HE SEEMED IN A BAD WAY MENTALLY, AND I HOPED THEY GOT WHERE THEY WERE GOING BEFORE HIS NERVOUSNESS TURNED PHYSICAL AND HE LOST IT BEFORE WE ARRIVED. I EXPELLED A SIGH OF RELIEF WHEN WE FINALLY TURNED THE CORNER INTO THE STERILE PREP ROOM.

I suddenly heard the sound of muted footsteps behind me, and when I turned to look, the person who was catching up to us rapidly could be no other than Ed Thoreau. The handsome white-haired man wore wrinkled scrubs and a wrinkled tee shirt, rubber gloves and brown street shoes encased in sterile booties that couldn't mask the sound of his approach. He looked at me with a shrewd glint of instant recognition, even though we'd never met. He paused to shout orders at a couple of orderlies and I flinched at his rich authoritative voice that, up close, sounded a lot like the air horn on a semi. He nodded briefly and circled in front of the wheelchair; bent down to catch the attention of its occupant.

"Well I'll be damned! Here you are in the flesh. I thought you might be halfway to some sleazy island by now …" And he laughed loud and long.

The man in the chair cringed and looked up. Then he smiled wanly and snarled a nasty comment under his breath that I couldn't quite hear, (but could easily imagine.) His face cleared and his hands relaxed a little on the arms of the wheelchair.

I smiled too ... hopefully.

And that's how Ed Thoreau and I were introduced. He's at least as tall as his patient and his eyes almost as blue. But the hair is pure white … Santa Clausey … and thick and lustrous as new snow on a hillside. In my head I pictured the sleigh and the reindeer. Silliness in the face of danger …

We exchanged a few pleasantries, but then all his attention returned to the man before him. I could see the mutual admiration that existed between them, and whatever misgivings I might have had up until then, melted away. My friend trusted him, and I knew instantly that he was in good hands.

I was invited to remain while final preparations were made; including watching him being helped out of the wheelchair and up to perch on the prep gurney. I witnessed the signing of the consent forms and the handing over of a sheaf of legal papers. I also saw the snarky smile appear on his face when they inserted the IV line with a sedative that insured a sense of total relaxation and well-being. He'd always called it 'happy juice' and I could see the pain receding from his face quickly as it took effect. He was still awake and aware … but _happily_ awake and aware. He was taken behind a privacy curtain and required to endure the shaving of pubic hair from the surgical site … and the insertion of more IVs … and the application of antiseptic.

Dr. Thoreau walked around with a clip board loaded with Calloway's medical history … a stack of papers as thick as the New York Times. I decided it must be the current legal stuff, plus the entire history that 'Kyle' probably filched from the records room at PPTH and had copied. It occurred to me then, that Kyle Calloway was not just real, but a text book unto himself. He had actually had his name changed legally. Ed Thoreau was keenly aware of the thorny treasure he held at his disposal, and was keeping the man's true identity close to his chest.

Bless 'im!

Things were getting interestinger and interestinger …

Thoreau, meanwhile, left the area to scrub up, suit up and get sterile. Brandy, the pretty nurse, left with him.

I counted down the things Kyle and I had discussed late into the night last night, and down the long list of preparations he'd already made:

He said he'd had the most thorough physical exam he'd ever had in his life with these people, to the extent that they all probably even knew the number of short hairs on his balls. I sprayed part of a mouthful of coffee on the sheets when he told me that.

We counted up the meds he was already taking and those he'd taken in the past. We ran out of stupid Vicodin jokes after about three minutes.

We also discussed the fact that he'd been measured for an artificial limb a few weeks before I arrived on the scene. He told me he was a bit apprehensive because his scar extended so far up on his thigh, and maybe a regular prosthesis wouldn't work because there would not be enough stump left to attach it to. He also knew that Thoreau had some clandestine tricks up his sleeve that he hadn't exactly told anyone else about, but was willing to trust the man if it meant he might actually be able to walk again. Or at least limp again.

I had no idea what he was talking about, and began running scenarios through my head. As a long-time oncologist who had seen many limbs lost to cancer, those which were amputated at or near the hip had very little chance of using a prosthesis.

I knew 'Kyle' understood this only too well. He had done voluminous research on it, and the odds, in his case, were not in his favor. The damaged leg would not be healed. Conversely, if he chose to ride it out to the bitter end as he had done thus far, it was inevitable that the deterioration would continue downhill until it eventually killed him. And he would be bedridden long before that.

"What does Ed have in mind?" I asked cautiously.

"I don't even know enough about it to ask an intelligent question." He admitted. "I've read articles, and some of his papers, and asked him to explain it. It's not in my field, and it all sounded like gibberish to me. I'm not really interested in becoming a rocket scientist, you know. My situation makes me a perfect guinea pig though, doesn't it? I do trust Ed …"

Some of his words didn't quite ring true. Being a rocket scientist had nothing to do with it, and neither did his trust in his doctor. He only knew the surgery was a big risk. Being chained to a wheelchair and crutches for the rest of his life was the worst case scenario. He was frightened to death, but had no intention of backing out. It was all or nothing at all. Damn the torpedoes and full speed ahead.

There was no obvious or correct answer.

"_It is what it is …"_

And here we are.

When all the pre-surgery details were completed, two orderlies and a young male LPN tightened down the sedative stanchions and placed the lines at the foot of the gurney. Gently they set it in motion and began the transition to the operating theatre. This was the moment when I would be banned from the action.

I moved to his head and again placed my hand on his shoulder. He reached up groggily and wrapped his fingers around my wrist.

"I'll see ya," he said, "when it's all over but the shoutin' …"

"Works for me," I answered. "We can shout together."

We let go slowly, and the gurney moved into the adjoining room. There was still the sterile prep to do inside the O.R.

I decided I would have about a six-hour wait.

At least.

56


	15. Chapter 15

DARKENED WINGS

Chapter 15

"Thoreau's Observations"

ED THOREAU HERE …

I'M TRYING NOT TO SHOW ANY OUTWARD SENTIMENT IN REGARD TO THE SITUATION IN WHICH

I FIND MYSELF WITH MY CURRENT SURGICAL PATIENT: A 'DR. KYLE CALLOWAY' AND HIS NERVOUS, ESTRANGED 'BROTHER'. TURNS OUT, 'CALLOWAY' IS RICHER THAN CROESUS, AND THE 'BROTHER' ISN'T FAR BEHIND. THAT SAME 'BROTHER' RECENTLY TURNED UP OUT OF THE CLEAR BLUE AFTER A LONG, DIFFICULT SEPARATION, SO THEY BOTH SAY. KYLE COULD HAVE TOLD ME HE WAS ARNOLD SCHWARZENEGGER AND THIS WAS HIS YOUNGER BROTHER, MOHAMMED ALI. I'M SURE THEY BOTH KNOW THEY'RE NOT FOOLING ANYBODY. I DIDN'T MENTION THAT I THOUGHT THEIR STORY WAS KIND OF LAUGHABLE AND I DIDN'T BELIEVE IT FOR A MINUTE. BUT THEY HAVE THIS NEED FOR PRIVACY, AND IT'S NONE OF MY BUSINESS. FUNNY THING IS; I REALLY LIKE KYLE. HE'S GOT COJONES THE SIZE OF MONTANA, AND HIS STONE-FACED COURAGE IN FACING PERSONAL DISASTER IS REALLY OLD FASHIONED, BUT ADMIRABLE. IF THEY WANT TO CLAIM TO BE BROTHERS, WHICH IS OBVIOUSLY BULLSHIT, SO BE IT. I FOUND OUT WHO MY PATIENT ACTUALLY IS ANYHOW … AND THAT HE HAD HIS NAME CHANGED … AND WHERE HE CAME FROM AND A BIT OF HIS BACKSTORY.

(HE WAS AN ONLY CHILD, FER CHRISSAKE!)

ON THE NIGHT WE MET, HE DROPPED SOME ZINGERS THAT EVEN INSPECTOR CLOUSEAU COULD'VE FIGURED OUT. WHEN I CHECKED ONLINE THE FOLLOWING DAY, I ALSO DISCOVERED WHO THE 'BROTHER' REALLY IS, AND A BIT OF THE CONNECTION BETWEEN THEM. I KNOW ALL KINDS OF STUFF NOW. AND I'VE ALSO HEARD ALL THE DAMN RUMORS ABOUT THEM THAT CIRCULATED IN MEDICAL

RANKS FOR YEARS. BUT THAT STUFF'S NONE OF MY BUSINESS EITHER. THEY'RE JEALOUSLY GUARDING THEIR COVER STORY, AND I GET IT. WE ALL LIKE A LITTLE BIT OF INTRIGUE NOW AND THEN. THEY'LL TELL ME THE TRUTH THEMSELVES WHEN THEY'RE READY, EVEN THOUGH I'D BET THERE'S NOT THAT MUCH TO TELL ANYMORE . AT LEAST THEY HAVE THE ADVANTAGE OF A LIE THAT'S BASED ON TRUTH AND HARD FACTS. BUT THAT'S ALSO THEIRBUSINESS. NONE OF MINE! NOW, HOWEVER, IS NOT THE TIME TO ASK THE QUESTIONS THAT STILL BOTHER ME, MAINLY BECAUSE I BELIEVE MY PATIENT IS ABOUT TO EXPERIENCE THE MOST TRAUMATIC EPISODE OF HIS LIFE AND IS IN NO SHAPE TO HANDLE OTHER STRESSFUL EMOTIONS; MAYBE MORE THAN HE EVEN KNOWS HE HAS. ALL I KNOW FOR SURE IS THE MAN IS IN AN UNBELIEVABLE AMOUNT OF PAIN, AND I HAVE TAKEN AN OATH TO 'FIRST DO NO HARM'. I LIKE HIM. HE IS A CHAMP. I WANT TO TAKE AWAY HIS PAIN IF I CAN. WE ALL DO. WE'RE GOING TO DO THE BEST WE POSSIBLY CAN FOR HIM.

MAYBE I SHOULD JUST START AT THE BEGINNING:

Three years ago last month, I came in to work on a Sunday afternoon to check on one of my surgical patients who'd developed an infection and was being closely monitored. When I arrived, I found that she had vastly improved. I examined her briefly and spoke with her a while, and then I left.

Anyhow, I was ready to go to my car and was shooting the breeze with two of the people manning the information-and-admissions desk downstairs.

I happened to glance across the room. A tall, chestnut-in-silver-haired man moved slowly out of one of the hallways and stopped to read a placard on the wall regarding the hospital's departments and their locations. Ordinarily I wouldn't have given such a person a second look, but this one drew my interest keenly, like an ambulance coming through the town square with siren wailing and red lights flashing.

Politely, I excused myself and walked toward him. His back was turned to me and I was careful not to startle him. I moved closer to his side and pretended to read the placard also, even though I could have recited its contents from memory. My attention was on his face, not the placard. His hair was wild and graying outward around his temples; his thin cheeks covered with at least a three-day growth of silver beard, and he wore an old Navy Peacoat with a scarf as though it were cashmere.

He glanced at me with a frown and then turned back again. He was on crutches and bore only a small amount of weight on the toes of his right foot. The damn crutches were bright red and looked like they could have held up a bridge. Looking him over, I could tell from the way his jaws were clenched and throbbing that he must be in pain. Only the tip of his right shoe was touching the floor now, and the huge effort it took to keep it so had left him drained.

He was not reading the placard; he was fighting to stay upright.

When you've been trained for a hundred years as a doctor, you learn to look for signs, and they jump out at you even from a distance. I turned toward him and asked urgently: "Are you all right, sir? And is there anything I can do to help? I'm a doctor."

"What makes you think I need help? I'm fine."

_Uh oh! _I shrugged and turned to leave. "Sorry. Just asking."

"Wait!" It was spoken in a low tone, but with an undercurrent of proud desperation.

I hurried back to him; in the meantime motioning frantically to the man and woman up front. "Bring me a wheelchair!" I yelled. "Stat!"

That brought the attention of everyone populating the lobby at the time. Gawkers abounded. But in seconds a young man came running with the chair I'd ordered.

"Fuck!" The gray haired man snarled under his breath.

I wasn't sure if he meant he was about to pass out, or pissed off at the unwanted attention. I decided maybe it was both …

He dropped into the wheelchair with a gasp. His crutches clattered to the floor and he reached down to grasp his leg with both hands, just above the knee. The pressure he put upon it would have crushed the life out of a fair-sized dog. I knelt and pried his hands away. The leg was in spasm from his thigh to his knee, and it was visible even through his jeans.

The intern who'd brought the wheelchair pulled a couple of capped syringes from his lab coat pocket and looked at me questioningly.

"What's in those?" Demanded our all-of-a-sudden patient.

"Demerol … Fentanyl," said the young man.

"_Gimmie one!"_ He grunted, holding out a shaky hand.

The intern looked up at me again, eyes full of indecision.

I hesitated as the man in the wheelchair hissed through his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut; grabbed at his leg again. Ripples along the muscles of his thigh were intensifying. He had to be in agony. If I let him do it, I was jeopardizing my license. If I didn't, the man could die right in front of me.

I nodded. "It's okay. Let him take it, Paul."

He grabbed a syringe, popped the cap and plunged the needle full into the side of his pulsing thigh.

Moments passed.

I wondered if he was still breathing.

He shuddered. His head came up slowly and his gaze found mine. His eyes were red and bloodshot; his breathing, one huge gasp after another. He released the plunger and the empty syringe fell to the floor.

His respirations began to slow down.

The next sound out of his mouth was something like a hitching, bitterly guttural, ironic bellow of sinister laughter.

He leaned back, exhausted and weak. "Thank you!" The words were harsh, but laced with honest gratitude. "Haven't had one that bad in a while …" There were tears running down his stubbled jaw, and he palmed them quickly away as though ashamed of their audacity in being there.

I had rarely seen anyone so completely overwhelmed. I keeled back until I was sitting on the floor facing him, feeling nearly as spent as he was. "What is it," I asked, "that makes your leg spasm like that? Old trauma?"

He lowered his head and snorted another burst of sardonic laughter. "Yeah. Something like that. I had an infarction in my thigh."

"Diabetic?"

"Nope. Embolism. Femoral artery. Muscle death. They let me lay screaming for almost three days before somebody got around to me. Had to diagnose myself when the monitors registered an impending cardiac arrest …"

His voice was bitter beyond belief. I could feel his anger all the way to my gut. "So you're a doctor too, huh? Have you been disabled like this very long?"

"Yeah, I am. A doctor. And yeah, off and on. It's a long, sad, boring story."

"I'd like to hear it. I'd also like to examine your leg and foot."

He laughed again, darkly. "Bring it on. Happy to oblige. I'm like a carnival game … everybody wants to take a shot at me. When?"

"How about now? My wife and son are at her mother's, so I have all day."

"Fine. Got any Vicodin?"

"That's strong stuff. But I do. You need some?"

"Every day. By the way, I'm Kyle Calloway, and you took a hell of a chance back there. Who the hell _are_ you?"

"Ed Thoreau. Vascular and Orthopedic. And you're welcome. I couldn't leave you in that shape …"

He reached out and we clasped hands briefly.

That day we spent six hours together. In my office. Talking. Putting out feelers. Speculating and trying each other's intellects on for size …

He stayed in the wheelchair without comment, using his crutches only when visiting the rest room. I watched his movements after the Demerol wore off. His foot had begun to drag. He needed Vicodin, but he didn't ask for it. Waiting for it to be offered. (What-the-hell kind of stupid courage is that?)

I could see the strain glittering in his eyes and making a death mask of his face.

I fished around in my middle desk drawer until I found the sample packet of Vicodin. I drew it out and offered it to him. He looked at me long and hard before he reached for them. He took two … dry … and pocketed the others.

I went to his side and raised the right leg rest. "You're in considerable pain right now, aren't you?"

He glared before he answered. "Yeah. Demerol's great, but it fades fast, and I've used a sufficiently large amount in my life ..."

I decided not to ask for permission to examine him just then. I would wait and see where this meeting ended up. When I placed a soft pillow beneath his leg, he sighed and began to speak.

He told me about his "military brat" childhood and his strict upbringing. He was a rebellious child and an incorrigible teenager with a morbid curiosity for medicine. He accumulated medical textbooks until the accumulation became more of a burden every time his father was reassigned.

He was still unruly into his twenties. He enrolled at Johns Hopkins and turned a stiff middle finger to the vagabond life of his Marine Corps parents.

His restless mind and willful spirit led him quickly to indulge further into medicine; and to music. Loud music. The louder and more tumultuous the better. He learned guitar and ukulele and banjo, and got serious about piano. Blew harmonica and saxophone and abused a fine set of drums. Music was the balm that tamed the savage beat ... or at least assuaged it. He was soon considered a genius at every new obsession he attacked, but it wasn't enough. Nothing was ever enough. He soon careened through courses in Archaeology and Anthropology; took a course in Zoology that lasted three days.

He went through women like there were not enough women on Earth to satisfy his many lascivious desires. (I won't use his exact words here, but he made me laugh more than once.) He cheated and connived and schemed to the point of being dismissed from his medical studies just after the first semester of his second year. He took to the road and bummed around; lived like a vagabond until he finally had enough, and reapplied to another medical school.

He finally ended up as Head Diagnostician at the same hospital where his brother interned when he too graduated from medical school some years later.

Then the infarction hit, and things had gone downhill ever since. He became hardened and cynical and angry. He insulted colleagues and patients alike. His chronic pain put him in the position of needing strong narcotics just to survive. No one took him seriously when he spoke of the pain. They accused him of becoming addicted to the drugs. And he had. He pushed people away until there was only one left in his life: his brother Kent.

One incident of poor judgment followed another until he had no choice, except to pull up stakes and start over in a new location. In the meantime, the damaged limb turned him into a cynical cripple with barely enough strength in his leg to walk. He would allow no one to touch it. Soon, he became deathly afraid he would lose it.

He moved to Etna, New Hampshire because he had read of Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center and its trauma teams … and some idiot doctor who'd barely saved a rock star's life by throwing convention to the wind and digging a potentially fatal bullet out of his brain.

(Thanks, man …)

Eventually he bought an old apartment building, had it renovated and moved in. Added an elevator for tenants on the second floor. Turned it into usable living space for disabled people, and set about transforming himself into a more tolerable person. (Sometimes I wonder about that.)

Later that evening, he retrieved his crutches and made ready to leave. We shook hands and I scheduled an appointment for a thorough examination the following week. I informed him I was going to turn his asshole inside out until I could see the backs of his teeth.

My reward was a vulgar guffaw that rumbled up from his innermost depths. This guy had a great smile when his pain allowed him to use it, and I decided we were destined to be friends. We both viewed the world from the same impermeable chunk of rock.

I watched the old car's tail lights recede into the night and wondered what would eventually become of "Kyle Calloway". I decided that one day he might want to consider changing his name …

… back to what it used to be …

61


	16. Chapter 16

DARKENED WINGS

Chapter 16

"Waiting for the Axe to Fall"

THERE WAS A SIZEABLE WAITING ROOM ACROSS A WIDE CORRIDOR FROM THE OPERATING THEATRES. I PAUSED A MOMENT BECAUSE I WASN'T SURE WHAT THE PROTOCOL WAS.

THEN BRANDY STEPPED INTO THE CORRIDOR AND LOOKED AROUND. SHE SPOTTED ME AND WALKED OVER, PULLING OFF HER RUBBER GLOVES. "IN CASE YOU WERE WONDERING, THIS WAITING ROOM IS THE BEST PLACE FOR A LONG WAIT. THERE'S ANOTHER ONE DOWN THE CORRIDOR, BUT THIS ONE HAS COFFEE, AND WATER FOR TEA. VOLUNTEERS KEEP CROCK POTS FILLED WITH SOUP, AND THERE'S ONE IN THERE NOW THAT SOMEONE BROUGHT IN LAST EVENING. IF YOU'D CARE FOR SOME, JUST HELP YOURSELF. THERE'S ALSO A TV AND SOME MAGAZINES IF YOU'D LIKE.

"WHEN THEY FINISH THE PROCEDURE AND TAKE DR. CALLOWAY OVER TO INTENSIVE CARE, SOMEONE WILL COME FOR YOU SO YOU CAN FOLLOW ALONG. I HAVE TO WARN YOU, IT'S GOING TO BE AT LEAST SIX HOURS. THERE'S A REST ROOM JUST DOWN THE HALL."

I NODDED QUICKLY AND SHE SAW I WAS NERVOUS.

"FOR WHAT IT'S WORTH," SHE CONTINUED, SMILING, "WHILE THEY WERE DOING FINAL PREP I STAYED AT HIS SIDE. IT'S ALWAYS GOOD FOR A NURSE TO REMAIN CLOSE TO A PRE-OP PATIENT. HE TOLD ME THAT IF I TALKED TO YOU, I SHOULD TELL YOU TO SLOW DOWN AND TAKE A DEEP BREATH THROUGH YOUR NOSE AND LET IT OUT YOUR MOUTH. IT'LL HELP YOU RELAX." HER PRETTY FACE BROKE INTO A SMILE, AND I DIDN'T HAVE THE HEART TO INFORM HER THAT I WAS A DOCTOR TOO. BUT HELL … SHE PROBABLY ALREADY KNEW.

YEAH … HE WOULD TELL SOMEONE TO SAY THAT TO ME. GROGGY WITH MEDS AND A LITTLE OUT OF HIS HEAD, HE WOULD THINK IT WOULD GET TO ME AND BE AN IMMENSE JOKE. BUT ALSO BECAUSE THE DECENT HUMAN BEING THAT LIVED INSIDE THAT IRASCIBLE SHELL WAS THE MOST CARING MAN

I'D EVER KNOWN.

I SMILED. "I'LL TRY TO REMEMBER," I SAID.

SO I TOOK THE DEEP BREATH. IN MY NOSE AND OUT MY MOUTH. AGAIN AND AGAIN. AND IT CALMED ME, JUST AS IT HAD CALMED _HIM_. "I MUST GO NOW," SHE SAID. "I HAVE TO SCRUB. I'LL TALK TO YOU LATER."

I thanked her. I would have said more, but she touched my hand lightly and then turned around and walked swiftly down the hall. I could see movement of pastel scrubs down that way, so things were getting ready to boogie. I sighed and walked inside the designated room.

I was the only one there, so far, and there was a good chance I would spend the whole time alone. I doubted very seriously that there were many pre-planned surgical procedures taking place this close to Christmas. It looked like Kyle Calloway was pretty special. (His former colleagues and underlings should get to know him again!)

I wandered across where an expanse of large windows looked out on a broad hillside. Evergreens were mixed in with and partially surrounding deciduous trees, whose thin, bare arms reached in supplication to the sky. It was a nice scene; wintery and sere. I could see a major highway in the distance with a steady stream of traffic moving both ways. The sky was filled with the same kind of dark angry clouds I'd seen yesterday and the day before.

While I stood there, the snow began. Slowly at first.

Soon it was falling like thick white feathers … 'Mother Goose is up there, shaking out her comforter', as my grandmother used to say. For a while I stood silent and still, the scene mesmerizing me even as I watched. Thoughts of Kyle Calloway roiled through my mind; images of him as he was when I first knew him, mingling with the marked changes since the infarction … and again in the future without the leg he had fought so hard to keep.

I looked at my watch and was surprised to note that it was nearly noon. Where had the time gone?

I hadn't even taken time to realize that my stomach was rumbling.

But now I did, and it was.

In the opposite corner of the room stood a coffee urn, a carafe with hot water, and a crock pot with the light on, which contained who-knew-what, but it had to be hot and nourishing. I moved over there and lifted the lid. Thick, heady ham-bean soup with diced carrots and potatoes. Who could resist? I would not keep kosher today …

I poured a cup of strong black coffee and ladled out a small styrofoam bowl of bean soup. I took them across the room to a comfortable chair and sat down to eat. The last time I'd had a cooked meal, other than hamburgers, had been Saturday morning's breakfast at the Watson Inn where he and I had first met after five years. I had not kept kosher then either. All I had felt that day was euphoria.

Today was three days before Christmas. While everybody, everywhere else, was preparing to deck the halls and open presents and celebrate whatever it was they celebrated every year, my best friend was in an O.R. having his diseased right leg removed.

I had eaten about half the soup, and it was delicious. But suddenly I couldn't eat any more. I rinsed the last mouthful down with coffee, lifted the lid of the refuse can and slid it in.

I waited.

He'd been in there a little over four hours.

They were probably fashioning his stump by now.

Filing down the edges of bone. Hooking up the drains to run off waste fluids created by the scalpel. Gathering the ends of muscle and skin flaps and stapling them in place; removing the excess skin and shaping … shaping … shaping. Pummeling the stump to assure its symmetry and comfort when he had to use it to walk … _IF _… he walked … or limped …

They would be stapling around the rear of the stump, fastening the flaps securely and fashioning a 'landing pad'. They would be applying antiseptics and dressings and compression bandages and also, probably, a stump sock. They would be filling his I.V. lines with strong pain medication for at least the next eighteen hours. Maybe longer, depending on how he responded.

They would place the stump on an absorbent pad and wedge warm towels beneath his hips and close to his sides to prevent him from trying to move around too much. When he came out of the anesthetic, would he be afraid? Apprehensive? Dispirited? Would they let me sit with him?

I envisioned the long, macabre, severed limb being flopped onto a table. Flabby and detached. Draining away its life fluids.

"_Just a damn leg!"_

An ugly, diseased lower limb, no longer viable because it was no longer attached to a living entity. Dying of acute starvation, but in its dying, saving the life of a friend I could not afford to lose again.

Before I realized it was even happening, I felt the emotion build.

_Damn!_

I hurried across the room and gathered a handful of paper towels.

But the feelings wouldn't stop.

_Take a deep breath!_

Really?

I was taking lots of them lately.

65


	17. Chapter 17

DARKENED WINGS

Chapter 17

"Under the Knife"

IN THE OPERATING ROOM – DECEMBER 23rd:

A SCALPEL CUTS THE SKIN FIRST. DR. THOREAU ADHERES PRECISELY TO THE MAP THAT HAS BEEN DRAWN ON THE EPIDERMIS, SHOWING THE BEST METHOD OF PRESERVING SKIN FLAPS TO SHAPE THE STUMP. THE PATIENT HAS A KELOID SCAR THAT COVERS MUCH OF HIS ANTERIOR THIGH. THE SCAR WAS DISTURBED AGAIN … A THIRD TIME IN THE SAME AREA. SKETCHY FOLLOWUP CARE DICTATED ITS HEALING THIS TIME, FROM THE INSIDE OUT. THIS NEWEST INCISION MUST, OF NECESSITY, ORIGINATE ABOVE THIS AREA. DANGEROUSLY CLOSE TO THE HIP …

THE LEG IS LIFTED PERPENDICULAR TO THE BODY, AND STERILE SHEETS ARE PLACED OVER A WIDE AREA AROUND IT. WITH THIS PARTICULAR PATIENT IT IS SOMEWHAT LIKE TAKING DOWN A DYING TREE THAT WAS DESTROYED IN A THUNDER STORM AND DAMAGED BEYOND RECLAMATION.

SEGMENTS ARE DELINEATED WITH MATHEMATICAL PRECISION EXACTLY WHERE THE SKIN FLAPS WILL BE LOCATED, AND THEN SEPARATED FROM THE DERMIS. THE SCALPEL CUTS DEEPER STILL, SLICING THROUGH MUSCLE LAYERS, TENDONS AND LIGAMENTS, ONE BY ONE. THE MAJOR BLOOD VESSELS ARE THEN METICULOUSLY SEVERED AND CLAMPED, USING GREAT CARE TO STEM AS MUCH BLOOD FLOW AS POSSIBLE.

DR. FIRESTONE CUTS THROUGH THE FEMUR WITH AN ELECTRIC SAW MADE ESPECIALLY FOR THAT PURPOSE. AS THE OTHER TWO MEMBERS OF THE TEAM WATCH AND HOLD THE DEAD LIMB STEADY, THE FEMUR COMES APART CLEAN AND THE DAMAGED LEG IS NO LONGER PART OF THE WHOLE. IT IS LAID ASIDE ON A STAINLESS STEEL TABLE TO BE STUDIED LATER.

DR. GARRETT FILES ALONG THE EDGE OF THE FEMUR STUMP, SLOWLY AND SMOOTHLY. HE ROTATES THE FILE IN A GRADUAL MOTION AROUND THE JAGGED SURFACE TO CREATE AN EVEN PLANE. THIS IS NECESSARY IN ORDER FOR THE PATIENT TO BEAR WEIGHT WHEN HIS WOUND IS COMPLETELY HEALED.

FINALLY THE TEAM MANIPULATES AND MOLDS THE SURVIVING MUSCLE MASSES CAREFULLY ACROSS THE REMAINING BONE AND NEATLY STITCHES THEM INTO PLACE. TEMPORARY DRAINS ARE THEN SUTURED UNDER OPPOSING FLAPS OF SKIN TO ALLOW EXCESS FLUIDS TO DRAIN FROM THE WOUND. THEY CONTINUE TO STRETCH AND GENTLY SMOOTHE THE NEWLY FORMED CUSHIONS OVER THE END OF THE BONE, CREATING A FLEXIBLE PAD WHERE THE PATIENT'S PROSTHESIS WILL BE JOINED IN THE FUTURE. ON THE OUTSIDE THEY USE STAPLES. THE INNER STITCHES WILL DISSOLVE.

SOMETIMES THE WOUND IS COVERED WITH A GAUZE PAD AND WRAPPED WITH AN ELASTIC BANDAGE, OR A STUMP SOCK OR SHRINKER IS USED RIGHT AWAY IN ORDER TO INDUCE A GENTLE COMPRESSION THAT WILL MAKE THE STUMP SHRINK DOWN AT THE END AND MAKE IT AS STRONG AND VIABLE AS POSSIBLE.

AFTER BRIEFLY STUDYING THE RESULTS OF THE PROCESS THUS FAR, THEY DECIDE TO USE THE SHRINKER IN THIS MAN'S CASE …

This day there are three surgeons: trauma, vascular and orthopedic, on the operating team. Ed Thoreau, Joe Garrett and Ernie Firestone. These men have worked together for years, and have long perfected a working rhythm like a talented trio of musicians: violin, viola and cello. They blend their skilled hands together in a concert of motion.

They cut with utmost precision.

They intuit.

They flow.

Today the team includes Bill Bridges, the anesthesiologist; Brandy Lantz, surgical nurse, and Hazel

Braddock, APRN, surgical assistant. Two orderlies and an LPN stand by.

The amputation this day, has gone well. Their main concern is the fact that the patient's right thigh had presented with a thickened scar from three failed surgeries, necessitating the removal of the limb more than halfway to his hip. This, in turn, left few options in the choice of a prosthesis that he would be able to use with any degree of function. There was, however, an innovative alternative …

VOICE #1:

"Are you still going with the electronics insertion, Ed? He did sign off on it, and he won't have much stump left by the time we finish with this. I think he may have seen it coming, and he may not be able to use mechanics."

VOICE #2:

"Yeah, Joe, you're dang right he saw it coming. This man has a brain the size of Texas. I've been keeping track of his bone and skin flexibility, and it looks like the new Guian-Kanu Titanium is the only insertion that will work for him. Give us a hand here while I clamp off these last couple of lines. We can poke around through the spaghetti after we drain the sauce. He has a strong, thick femur and the remaining muscle structure and tendons look good. We have to be careful with the anterior skin flap. Because of the scar, it's shorter than the others. The attachments should be easy enough if we move slowly, insert deeply … and nothing happens that will cause us to take more of it off. His quadriceps are pretty much nonexistent though ..."

VOICE #3:

"Okay, gentlemen, I've got the last strands of spaghetti here. Clamping them off. Sponge. Get that snorkel in here … yeah … a little deeper. Damn! Maybe we should have brought a Shop Vac. There, Joe, that's got it. Pull some of the top sirloin out of the way so I can reach in to attach the unit. Bring the drill please. Yeah. Little to your right and up. Yep. There. Two centimeters … Now!"

(Long pause … sound of mechanical whirring …)

VOICE #2:

"That does it, Ernie. The thermo-electronic components ought to simulate the action of his missing quadriceps okay. Thanks. Can't get over how tiny that thing is … and it packs a wallop!"

VOICE #3:

"Tell me about it!"

(LAUGHTER)

VOICE #2:

"How are his vitals?"

VOICE FROM ANESTHESIOLOGIST:

"Normal parameters, Ed. No glitches, no surprises."

VOICE #2:

"One lucky thing about his loss of muscle: a while ago when I removed the biomedical line from the subcutaneous tissue of his leg, the upper thigh pinked up a lot faster and a lot better than I thought it would. The new thermonic anode worked well for almost a month with only one recharge. I believe the Guian-Kanu prosthesis will work even better.

"Okay. Steady as she goes."

FOR AN ANOTHER HOUR, METICULOUS WORK PROCEEDED STEADILY TO FASHION THE BEGINNINGS

OF A FUNCTIONAL SUBSTITUTE FOR THE LOSS OF THE PATIENT'S RIGHT LEG. THE AMPUTATION LINE WAS HIGHER THAN THEY WERE COMFORTABLE WITH, BUT THERE WAS NO OTHER CHOICE. EXTRA CARE WAS TAKEN TO ENSURE THAT THE STUMP WAS MOLDED CAREFULLY AND THE BONE SCULPTED WITH EXACT PRECISION. MINUTE ATTENTION MUST BE PAID TO THE NUANCES. THERE WERE SO MANY EXIGENCIES.

WHEN THEY FINALLY STRAIGHTENED FROM THEIR LABORS, THEY'D BEEN SEVEN LONG HOURS UNDER THE GUN.

THEIR PATIENT ALSO HAD AN INTERESTING PERMANENT IMPLANT THAT WOULD MAKE HIM "ONE OF A KIND" IN MORE WAYS THAN ONE …

VOICE #1:

"Are we ready to close?"

VOICE #2:

"Ready as we'll ever be, gentlemen. Ready as we'll ever be. Doctor Callaway, you're about to become the next Six Million Dollar Man …"

VOICE #1:

"Okay … zip 'er up!"

At 3:35 p.m., December 23rd, Dr. Kyle Calloway, warmly blanketed and sprouting a half-dozen I.V.s, was ready to make the trip to the recovery room.

The gurney moved into the corridor at 3:37.

Brandy Lantz walked across to the waiting room and entered to find a silent, red-eyed man standing in front of the windows where heavy snow swirled past outside. The second 'Dr. Calloway' wiped his face on a paper towel and nodded, quite unable to talk. He looked at her with trepidation.

"Hey? L'il Doc? He's going to recovery in a few minutes." She held out a closed fist toward him and he frowned with confusion in his moist eyes. "Here … Dr. Garrett said you'd be wanting these."

She opened her hand into his outstretched palm. The keychain which held the keys to his car fell into it. He looked at them stupidly.

"I'm told they parked your car in the employees' lot at the back of the building. It's under the area light in Section C. If you take a closer look, you'll find that your chain has an extra key."

He stared, hardly comprehending.

"Doc Calloway gave Joe a key to his apartment for you. So you can come and go as you need to while he's laid up."

When he hesitated, she smiled at him. "Come on Little Doc. Kent. Perk up. He came through it fine. Soon he'll be jogging on a beach out there somewhere …"

"If only I could believe that," Calloway whispered, mostly to himself.

"Ready to go sit with him? He'll certainly be looking for you."

He nodded again, not really hearing. Fingering the set of keys in his pocket.

He followed her out the door and down the corridor.

69


	18. Chapter 18

DARKENED WINGS

Chapter 18

"I. C. U."

I ENTERED THE TINY I.C. CUBICLE WITH MY HEART IN MY THROAT.

HE WAS LYING FLAT, HOLLOW CHEEKED AND SENSELESS. HIS BED WAS CRANKED UP ON ITS FRAME AS HIGH AS IT WOULD GO, THE MATTRESS ALMOST AT WAIST-HEIGHT. THE BED WAS PUSHED INTO THE CORNER OF THE ROOM, AND HE WAS SURROUNDED BY LIFE-SUSTAINING MONITORS AND GLEAMING IV STANCHIONS ON BOTH SIDES. HIS BODY WAS ALMOST COMPLETELY SWALLOWED BETWEEN THEM. AN IV WAS TAPED FIRMLY TO THE BACK OF HIS RIGHT HAND, AND I ENVISIONED GLOBULES OF HEROIC MORPHINE RACING THROUGH HIS BLOODSTREAM, SIRENS WAILING: "LET US THROUGH! THIS IS AN EMERGENCY!"

ON HIS INDEX FINGER A PULSE-OX METER FED INFO TO ONE OF THE MONITORS BY THE BED. THERE WAS A BP CUFF ON HIS LEFT ARM, CARDIAC MONITORS ON HIS CHEST BENEATH THE GOWN, AND IN HIS NOSTRILS, AN OXYGEN CANNULA HAD JUST REPLACED THE FULL MASK USED DURING SURGERY, ITS PINK OUTLINE STILL PROMINENT ACROSS HIS CHEEKS AND NOSE. THERE WERE TWO LPNs BUSTLING AROUND HIM, SETTING UP FRESH LINES, AS WELL AS CHANGING TO A FRESH FOLEY CATHETER BAG.

A TALL NO-NONSENSE, DARK-SKINNED CHARGE NURSE WITH PIERCING BLACK EYES CAME INTO THE ROOM, CHECKING AND RECHECKING HIS PULSE, RESPIRATIONS, BP AND FOLEY. ON SILENT FEET SHE NEGOTIATED THE BED'S PERIMETER, RECHECKING EACH MONITOR IN TURN. SHE LINGERED AT HIS SIDE, LEANING OVER HIS BODY, GENTLY EXAMINING HIS STUMP WITH BOTH HANDS, CHECKING ITS CIRCUMFERENCE FOR CHANGES IN CIRCULATION OR ELEVATED TEMPERATURE; WATCHING HIS FACE CLOSELY FOR ANY CHANGES IN EXPRESSION OR RESPIRATION. SHE MOVED ON, RUNNING GENTLE FINGERS ACROSS HIS BODY IN AN UNINTRUSIVE FASHION, WATCHING CLOSELY AS HE CAME THE REST OF THE WAY OUT OF THE ANESTHETIC AND BEGAN TO LOOK AROUND, REGAINING HIS SENSES.

After a short time she turned to me and motioned me closer. "My name is Hazel Braddock, APRN, and I'll be overseeing Dr. Calloway's care. I'll be looking in on him this evening, tomorrow and Christmas Day. I'm told that you're a doctor also, and that you will be staying with him?"

I nodded dumbly.

"He's looking for you, I think," she said. "And Dr. Thoreau will be checking in soon. I want you to know that you can call me any time, day or night if you need anything. The number is on the pad over by the phone. I'll be in-house all three days. Dr. Calloway is well thought of here, and we want to help him any way we can."

She met my gaze briefly as my eyebrows rose. "I'm going to call the kitchen and have some food sent up here. You have to be starving by now." She removed her rubber gloves and dropped them in the trash.

"That sounds wonderful. May I call you Hazel? And coffee?"

"Of course, on both counts. If I may call you Little Doc?" She smiled subtly, brushed her hand down across my arm in a gesture of support. Then she turned and left the room. I found myself looking after her in admiration. She was probably the most highly paid nurse in this hospital, and yet she had volunteered to look after the acerbic Kyle Calloway during the most important holiday season of the year.

When I turned back to his bed, I wondered how and when this man had managed to attain the state of sainthood around this institution with such incredible ease. It was revolutionary. I smiled to myself in spite of the circumstances.

I walked silently across the room to look down on him, attempting to maintain some semblance of normality. Actually, normal was the last thing in the world I felt at the moment. There was nowhere on his body that I could touch him without encountering some sort of medical apparatus. Except maybe brush my index and middle fingers lightly across his cheek. Which I did.

"How are you doing?"

For a tall, rangy man, he appeared diminished; small and helpless in that huge moving van of a hospital bed. Beneath the blanket I could see the outline of what was left of his leg. There wasn't much. It was raised minimally on some sort of absorbent pad. There were six heated towels rolled and placed along the sides of his body to keep him from moving around too much. What glared most was the empty expanse where the rest of his long, once-muscular leg used to be. Now there was only the bare, even surface screaming that a vital part of him was missing.

"I feel like crap."

His voice was weary and weak and raspy from the after effects of the intubation tube. I touched his fingers at the same moment he reached down out of habit, to examine that part of his body which had at one time caused him pain. I saw the glitter of despair in his eyes as he realized it was no longer there.

"My leg is gone …"

I could hear the sound of hopelessness that had me swallowing convulsively.

What could I say? I needed to hold some tiny part of him in my hands; prove to myself beyond the shadow of a doubt that he was still solid. Real. I took the hand with the pulse-ox into both of my own and nodded. Nothing fancy or profound. Just my honest regret that could never match his own.

"Yeah, it is."

The LPNs, their work concluded, had gone. Vanished like Wils-O-the-Wisp.

The room, except for the beeping of the monitors, was quiet. On the other side of the twin windows across from us, snow was still falling in a windless, silent blanket.

For some strange reason I thought of old Sarah as she used to tippie-toe across the kitchen counter of my loft; her tail afloat, ears fluttering at the slightest nuance. Always on a quest for food, but making no sound as her feathery paws picked their way gracefully from one end to the other …

The snow was like the cat: hushed and soft and white and gentle.

Our no-nonsense APRN returned briefly and made a series of notes on an electronic notebook; asked him if he needed stronger meds.

He shook his head 'no', but I figured he probably would a little later.

"Do you need anything before I leave?"

"Could you raise the head of my bed a little?"

"Not too far for now, but certainly." She buzzed it upward a few degrees.

She would return soon to check vitals again, she said. If there were no drastic developments, he

could probably be moved to a private room by evening. He would also probably be okay without the nasal cannula by then. Maybe he would have a room with a view … like he gave a shit about the view.

She made sure he had ice chips. And she would bring food.

Hazel Braddock walked out and Ed Thoreau walked in, within a few minutes of one another.

The good doctor wasted no time on preliminaries, but began rechecking the lines, the IVs, the beeping monitors. He followed almost the same path as Hazel had done. He paused a moment to buzz down the height of the bed and to free any of the lines that might have got caught in some of the narrow spaces. Satisfied, he straightened again.

He looked at me and nodded silently as he turned back the blanket and sheet that covered his patient's body. His fingers were all over Kyle Calloway. Just as Hazel's had been. With both hands he lightly encircled the narrow face, middle fingers palpating gently behind his ears; index fingers running down both sides of his throat, the backs of both hands against temples and forehead. He passed on down the neck and across the shoulders. Felt arms and ribs and gripped the stomach as though searching for things which might come crawling out.

He moved on down to the stump and very delicately felt along the bandages and the swollen mass of traumatized flesh beneath. He brushed lightly along the sides and the meticulous row of staples, and down to the spot where the drainage tubes were inserted. Both containers were about half full of viscous pinkish liquid. Then to the hips; pressing and examining. "You're going to have to do some extensive rehab work on your hip, old son … get it in shape to accept your prosthetic when it's ready

and when you're able to accept _it._"

My 'brother' lay silent. Watching. Listening closely. Taking it all in. I could sense his mind working. Elbows on the mattress, hands held loosely; canted upward in such a graceful configuration that I was reminded of the times I'd spied on him at his desk, deep in diagnostic contemplation, not even realizing that his long slender fingers were playing something complicated on an imaginary keyboard …

Once again, I was reminded how much his continued presence meant to me.

Thoreau straightened. Looked down at his patient again.

Calloway, fully awake now, stared back.

"How is the pain? Gimmie a number."

The man in the bed pursed his lips, clenched his fists and winced from the pull of the IV. "Sixish."

"Umm … less than I would have thought. But I'm gonna up the meds a little. You need to get a good night's sleep. I won't be in tomorrow or Christmas Day, but I'll be on call. If you feel you're running into trouble, for God's sake have somebody call me! Hazel will be here to keep an eye on you … and she'll happily bust your ass if you don't do what she says." Thoreau grinned.

"As for you, 'Li'l Doc', try not to be too nice. He couldn't stand it!"

There was a snort from the bed as Kyle watched Thoreau readjust one of the IVs and then buzz his bed back to the level it had been in when he entered.

"Why were you doing all those hands-on things?" I inquired.

Thoreau grinned again, and with his white hair and pink cheeks, he really did remind me of Santa Claus. "Well, I have this aversion to always examining people with that cold, damn medical hardware all the time. Remember Bones McCoy on Star Trek? He always said the hands-on approach was better than a bunch of whirring gadgets any day, and I happen to agree with him. When I examined Kyle, I discovered that his pulse and respiration are good; his temp is about one degree above normal, but the meds will take care of that. He's in a little more pain than I'm comfortable with … that's another reason for cranking up his meds. He's worried about how he'll make out without his leg. He misses it. I don't blame him."

Raspy voice and all, Calloway said in his best 'Spock' imitation: "Humph … you read my mind so well, Captain! Fascinating."

It was the closest he'd come to getting back his sense of humor.

Thoreau smiled and reached down to clasp his patient's hand warmly between his own. "Everything looks good for now. The rest is mostly up to you. I'll pass it on for someone to transfer you to your own room in an hour or so. Capisce?

"I shall now go home and spend the rest of the evening with my wife and son. They haven't seen much of me lately. If everything continues to go well, I'll see you Monday morning. If not, call me … please. You're a special case and I need to keep on top of it. We have a lot of work to do to get you back on your feet."

He extended his hand to me and I grasped it firmly. "He's gonna need you. Stay alert … especially to the things he _doesn't _say. And it's a pleasure to meet you. Merry Christmas."

He walked out of the room wearily, and we both looked after him. It was 5:00 p.m., and black as midnight outside. Thoreau had been here working steadily since six in the morning. He had come to work in the dark; was going back home in the dark. One of the 'benefits' of living in the Northeast.

The snow was still falling; flakes reflecting like spring raindrops in the arc lights outside the building. I wished spring were here for real …

"Merry Christmas," we both said, but we were a little late.

I pulled the visitors' chair close to the side of his bed and sat down. I was weary from the waiting, weary from worry, and hungry as hell. I reached for his non-restricted hand and clasped onto it, squeezing firmly.

He was laying there bright-eyed, tears pooling and ready to overflow. His grieving had begun in earnest, and I had no words with which to give him comfort. Suddenly he squeezed back with a strength born of despair, and which I thought might actually break some small bones.

I brought my opposite hand to the surface of the bed and joined it with the other one, clasping tightly to loosen his grip. He watched me with fear in his eyes, lest I leave his side. He radiated a desolation and a palpable misery; his throat hitching with quiet hiccoughs. I pulled his hand to my lips and gently kissed his fingers where they now lay white as snow and cold as ice between my own.

He stared, startled at my display. His shaking slowed gradually as he looked at me in astonishment. Long moments passed as we stared dumbly at each other.

I smiled. Deflecting. "I love you, big brother", I said.

Through his tears, a low and familiar 'bullshit' chuckle escaped behind a sad grunt of sarcasm.

"'Bros before Hos', huh?"

74


	19. Chapter 19

DARKENED WINGS

Chapter 19

"His Own Room"

SINCE MY SURGERY I HAVE TURNED INTO ONE OF THE MOST PATHETIC CREATURES THAT'S EVER BEEN KNOWN TO EXIST, AND I AM ASHAMED.

FOR YEARS I LOOKED WITH UNDISGUISED REVULSION AT THE MEWLING SAD SACKS QUAKING IN FEAR BENEATH MY SCRUTINY. I SCOFFED IN THEIR FACES. I DIAGNOSED THEIR DISEASES AND TURNED MY BACK TO WALK AWAY WITH COLD INDIFFERENCE. I LEFT THEIR PALLIATIVE CARE TO UNDERLINGS AND DID NOT SPEAK TO THEM AGAIN IF I COULD POSSIBLY AVOID IT.

NOW THAT I AM ONE OF THEM, I AM MORTIFIED, AND I SHAKE LIKE AN OCTOGENARIAN WITH THE PALSY …

I'M HUMILIATED THAT I'M UNABLE TO CONCEAL MY FEAR FROM MY FRIEND, AND ADDING TO THE PAIN OF HIS HAVING TO WITNESS MY UNCONTROLLED THEATRICS. I'M GRATEFUL THAT HE'S MAINTAINED A CALM DIGNITY, EVEN AS MY EYES LEAK CROCODILE TEARS ONTO MY PILLOW AND MY NOSE LEAKS SNOT THE CONSISTENCY OF DISH DETERGENT TO COMINGLE WITH THE TEARS. PATHETIC!

THIS EFFORT I'VE BEEN MAKING TO CHANGE MYSELF INTO A 'GOOD GUY' SEEMS TO BE MORE BOTHER THAN IT'S WORTH. I WANT TO SCREAM AND CUSS AT ANYONE WHO DARES TO LOOK AT ME. BUT THAT'S NOT WHO I AM ANYMORE, IS IT? THE ROTTEN BASTARD THAT INHABITED THIS BODY BEFORE KYLE CALLOWAY TOOK IT OVER IS STILL LURKING IN THE SHADOWS WITH A SHOTGUN, AND ITCHING FOR REVENGE.

MY FRIEND: 'BROTHER' IF YOU PREFER, POSSESSES THE KINDEST HEART OF ANYONE I'VE EVER KNOWN, AND HE DOESN'T DESERVE VERBAL ABUSE FROM THE 'OLD' ME. I KNOW HE'S SHOCKED OUT OF HIS SKULL AT THE CHANGES I'VE MANAGED TO MAKE OVER THE PAST FIVE YEARS OR SO, EVEN THOUGH HE BUSTS A GUT TO KEEP FROM SHOWING IT. I HAVE ALSO SEEN HIM LOOK AT MY SITUATION WITH PITY IN THOSE DARK EYES … EVEN THOUGH HE BUSTS A GUT TRYING TO HIDE THAT TOO.

I WANT TO SCREAM. BUT NOT AT HIM.

MY REACTIONS COME OUT LIKE SELF-PITY, AND I HATE THAT. SO I MOAN AND BLUBBER INSTEAD.

'LIQUID EMOTION'.

IT HURTS HIM. I KNOW HE KNOWS I'M SCARED, AND I ALSO KNOW HE LOVES ME. I HATE THAT TOO. BECAUSE I KNOW HIS LOVE HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH 'BROTHERLY'. I CAN'T RECIPROCATE. I JUST CAN'T!

WHAT WOULD THAT MAKE ME?

JUST LIKE HIM?

AND WHAT DOES THAT MAKE HIM?

Hazel Braddock finally brought us food.

And I say that with a disgusted grunt. I have received a cup of chicken broth without any chicken. I also got a tiny container of lime Jello. One slurp and it's gone. At least it's not 'diet' Jello, she says. Same with the broth. I hope I don't upchuck it.

More damn ice chips.

She doesn't want me ingesting anything too 'heavy' until tomorrow. I get it. I've got a Foley stuck up my pecker, and it'll be a real pain in the ass (literally) if I decide I have to take a dump.

Bed pans and me don't mix.

Kent, on the other hand, has a nice big platter of real chicken. And corn. And mashed potatoes and gravy. A wedge of apple pie. Damn! And a cup of coffee that smells heavenly. When she leaves, I think I shall hop over to his chair and knock him out with one of my IV stands and gobble all his food.

While 'Kent' slurps his way through the goodies, I lay here and wait until Hazel messes with monitors and IVs. I wait while she removes my bandages and empties the drains they've sutured inside my stump. I wait while my 'food' sits and grows cold (or warm, depending on your point of view), she changes my dressings and oh-so-gently palpates around the staples, ("_Ow, dammit!_") and delicately rubs the end of my stump with some kind of lotion, which I can't exactly feel. Actually it feels like she's massaging the sole of my sore foot. But that's impossible, isn't it?

When she finally finishes, I'm feeling pain in the foot, and I tell her. She says that's kind of normal, which I already knew, and probably will be that way for a few days to a week. Maybe longer. She ups the meds and it slowly goes away.

I look over and see 'Kent' watching anxiously. I tell him it's all right. He takes another bite out of a drumstick and I cuss him under my breath.

Finally I get my 'supper'.

Hazel leaves again and I remove the cannula from my nose to sip at the broth. I was afraid I might be nauseous, as sometimes happens after surgery, but by some miracle I'm not. It's exactly the right temperature and doesn't burn my tongue. It's surprisingly good. I drink it slowly. Then I taste the Jello. It's become a little liquidy, but I don't care. I finish that in five seconds and kind of look around for more … like a starving wolf cub.

_*Sorry … tomorrow.*_

Right!

'Kent' has laid his dishes and cutlery aside and is now holding his cup of coffee.

Two tall orderlies walk into my room … (No, it's not the beginning of a dirty joke!)

"Hi-ya Doc. Good to see you're okay …"

… along with Hazel, who has returned to check my IVs and place the bags on my bed. They unhook the monitors quickly and secure the leads. She does not insist that I put the cannula back in my nostrils. *whew*

"What gives?"

Looks like I get to make the trip to my own room. 'Cause this one is like living inside a broom closet. Kent lays his dishes aside and gets up to assist if he can.

Hazel removes the cannula from the sheet at my side and wraps the tubing around her hand. She shuts off the flow of oxygen from the canister and hangs the tubing on the end of the caddy. It looks like I'll be allowed to breathe normal air … no more of the 'homogenized' stuff. She leaves it there when I feel the bed begin to move …

We're going! Out the door, down the hallway, into the elevator. One floor down. To the right, down another hallway. Here we are. Oh Shit! My new room is right next to the nurses' station. _Right _next to it! Close enough to see them … hear them … feel them spying on me. Back in Jersey I stayed as far away from nurses' stations as I could get. Nurses don't let you get away with _anything _… and if you try to pull a fast one, they can_ smell _it.

My new room feels as big as a barn. All kinds of grab bars that I'll probably never use. It looks like a setup for the Flying Wallendas. Big bathroom right next to my bed. I can see through the door. More bars and grips in there than a Broadway sound stage. Even a panic button and a full-length mirror. Jeez! Meanwhile, outside my windows it is snowing like somebody took a butcher knife to a feather bed. The whole world is white and fluttery under the arc lights, and nobody told me. Guess I was too busy feeling sorry for myself.

They began to unpack me again, and reattach things they'd unattached a few minutes before, upstairs. Mission accomplished. I heaved a sigh of relief and Hazel leaned down to stare into my face.

I glared back. "What?"

"Pain level," she demanded.

Actually, I hadn't thought about it. Both my stump and my hip were expressing some mild discomfort. Nothing I couldn't live with. "Three," I finally said. "Maybe four."

She nodded. Her fingers went to my wrist. She stared at her watch and counted. _Silly move, _I thought. "Trying to see if my left pulse is different from my right pulse?" I said teasingly.

The look she gave me would have made the paint run on the _Mona Lisa. _"It happens!" She hissed, as though I wouldn't have known. Her voice lowered to a whisper: "At least I've _heard_ it happens …"

I choked off my obvious response and looked up.

Both orderlies got ready to leave and go back to pick up the oxygen tank. "See ya, Doc... hang in there."

"Thanks …"

'Kent' stood by, watching and listening. (Smirking …)

"Looking good," Hazel said at last. "How do you feel … generally?" She still looked pissed off.

I shrugged. "Not that bad. My leg hurts."

"Your 'leg'?"

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah. I do. I guess it'll take you a little while to remember to use the abbreviation …"

I snorted. _"Ni-i-ice …" _

She'd won that one.

She grinned, and it made her entire face light up. She turned to the man who stood beside her looking anxious. "You!" She said. "Little Doc. How are _you_ holding up?"

He blinked. "Me? Okay, I guess. Just that it's stressful, and in this situation I pretty much don't know what the hell I'm doing … just playing it by ear."

"Good. Keep on doing whatever you're doing. It seems to be working. By the way, I ordered an extra bed set up for you in here. When they come in with it, they'll have his backpack with them. Did you bring any extra clothing along?"

'Little Doc' blinked again. "Uh … no. Never gave it a thought." He brought a hand upward and gripped the back of his neck, easing stiff muscles in a self-conscious and familiar sign of embarrassment.

"I'll send you some scrubs for tonight. Tomorrow you should go home and get a few things, also make some adjustments to his living quarters, okay? I'll stay with him while you're gone … L'il Doc …" She smiled, and good ol' 'Kent' sighed and rolled his eyes.

"I've got to go now. There're patients down the hall I need to check in on. Then I'm going over to the cafeteria for some supper myself. You boys get some sleep, and ring if you need _anything! _You know I'm on call."

We both assured her we would do that if it became necessary. We said our good-nights and she left.

He and I remained still for a few moments and just studied one another. He pulled the only visitors' chair from across the room … again … and set it close by my side. He sat down and immediately reached for my forearm. "Were you telling the truth when you said you were feeling better?"

"Yeah," I said. "I was, but don't forget I'm still pumped full of happy juice. Tomorrow I'll probably bite your head off."

I was a little surprised that my sloppy displays of an hour or so earlier were beginning to fade. I was relaxing naturally, thank god; and I found that I was able to heave a sigh of relief.

Without even realizing that my other hand had moved, I placed my open palm on top of his where it lay, and squeezed gently. "I don't know what happened while I was being moved down here, but I feel almost normal. I'm having phantom pain, but it isn't excruciating and I know what it is. I know it will go away, and when it's gone, something else will take its place. But then that will be gone too, probably, and we can get on with whatever we want to get on with ...

"Understand?"

He lowered his head in, I thought, further embarrassment.

"I don't know," he admitted slowly. "But I'd like to think so."

Ten minutes later two maintenance men arrived with the extra bed. 'Kent' stood up to give them a hand. Just like he always did …

"Hi Doc," they said in unison. "How are you doing?"

"Hi Bill. Hi Lenny. I'm okay, I think."

They quickly positioned the smaller bed close to the wall on the opposite side of the room. It was already made up with clean sheets and a blanket. My wandering backpack was plopped in the middle, and a set of puke-green scrubs lay folded beside it.

They both paused a moment. "Get better soon, Doc!" The one called Lenny said.

"I will. Gonna be back to work soon … g'nite."

"Night," added Bill." They walked out the door and disappeared to the left.

'Kent' stood at the foot of my bed, both fists dug in deep above his hip bones.

"Good lord … do you know _everybody_ at this hospital by name?"

I laughed, and it felt good.

"Pretty much …" I said smugly.

He shook his head.

But not in surprise.

79


	20. Chapter 20

DARKENED WINGS

Chapter 20

"Counting the Tiles"

I SLEPT FITFULLY THAT NIGHT, MAINLY BECAUSE HE WAS ALSO RESTLESS. HE'D BEEN LYING IN ALMOST THE SAME POSITION FOR HOURS, AND HIS JOINTS WERE PROBABLY BEGINNING TO ACHE, INCLUDING THOSE THAT WEREN'T THERE ANYMORE.

HAZEL HAD BEEN IN AND OUT ALL EVENING, EMPTYING HIS DRAINS, CHECKING THE MORPHINE DRIP, FILLING THE ICE-CHIP CUP AND EXCHANGING THE WARM TOWELS THAT PRESSED AGAINST HIS SIDES.

SHE WAS VERY DILIGENT WITH THE MANIPULATION OF HIS STUMP. I NOTICED THAT HE WAS HOLDING HIS BREATH WHEN SHE TOUCHED IT, BUT HE SAID NOTHING. HIS FACE WAS SET IN STONE LIKE THE CARVINGS ON MOUNT RUSHMORE. I WAS SURE THAT IT WAS BEGINNING TO HURT LIKE HELL AS THE MORPHINE DRIP AUTOMATICALLY BEGAN TO DIMINISH.

He was probably experiencing more pain than the current drip could control. When I looked him in the eyes, demanding information, he warned me away with an angry scowl. Then I noticed that his fists were clenched in a manner that turned his knuckles the same color as his sheets.

I backed off, but he knew I would not rest until he gave me some answers.

Hazel had not taken note … yet. Supposedly.

I showered about 9:00 p.m. and changed into the scrubs they'd sent over. He watched me gather up everything, enter the elaborate shower room and close the door behind me. We hadn't talked, and I attributed that to the fact that he was decidedly uncomfortable and didn't want to be bitchy about it. I decided to give him some space. There was still a lot of the old dog lurking behind the strange persona of the 'new-and-improved ….'

When I came out, Hazel was back. She had placed warm, fresh towels along his sides: just two of them this time, above his hips. She'd lowered his bed to sleeping position, fluffed his pillow and straightened his hospital gown. I saw her lift everything to check his urine output and the drains. She turned to the bedside table to offer him two pills in a small paper cup. Looked like Tylenol. Not sure. His eyes said 'thank you', although he had not spoken.

"I need a shave," I heard him say a bit later. "I feel prickly, and the longer hair and beard isn't going to work here. Any options?"

I walked to my side of the room and dumped my soiled clothing on the bed. "You _are_ beginning to look a bit like a baby musk ox," I said.

Hazel looked from one of us to the other and made a face. "You're both crazy," she laughed, "but he's right. While you're still convalescing, it's going to be a pain in the neck to fool with that fancy hairstyle, even though it's very attractive. I recommend a small amount of scruff and a shorter haircut to keep it off your neck. It'll be easier to deal with until you get home and can trim it up to suit yourself again. I'll leave a note downstairs for one of the stylists to visit you; probably right after Christmas."

When she left for the night, I finally cornered him. "Are you in pain?"

He glared at me angrily for a few moments, but then his features softened. "Sorry," he said. "I don't mean to act like an ass, but my hip aches like hell. I turned wrong when she moved the towels. Didn't take much, I guess. I've been too long in the same position. Right now every movement hurts. The pills have tamed it down but not enough. Also, the damn Foley is driving me out of my mind. I hope they remove it tomorrow. I guess if they want me out of bed, they'll have no choice. Maybe they'll also teach me the right way to pee.

"Either way it's gonna hurt. I'll probably wet myself. I'll be clumsy an' top-heavy an' weak. I'll list to starboard like a capsizing ship … an' be all nervous an' sore an' … ah … shit!"

If he'd meant to diffuse me or deflect me or make me laugh, he was just as good at it now as he'd been in the past. I couldn't help but shake my head and grin.

I crossed to his bed and stood looking down. He raised his hand tentatively and I clasped it in mine. "I think they'll teach you to care for your stump first … you know … learn to bathe it, check it for swelling and redness, learn to change your bandages, put the sock on. They may remove the Foley tomorrow, if you're lucky. But you need another day or two with the drains. The wound is still seeping.

"They'll show you the right way to get out of bed and into a wheelchair … although you're pretty much an expert at doing that. The good thing is … you don't have a useless leg to drag along behind you."

He grunted. "Thanks for that. It makes me feel so damned much better!"

I shrugged. "It's true."

"I know …"

"You'll probably have to use a walker for a while. And crutches, certainly. You already know your center of balance will be different, and you have to remember to _not _jump out of bed at night to run to the bathroom. You'd land flat on your ass; probably break your neck. There are so many things … and if the pain gets worse, tell me and I'll ask Hazel for stronger meds. Okay?"

He was wavering, eyelids fluttering. "Uh huh …"

There was a long, silent pause. The lights in the corridor outside his door were dimming for the night. Beyond the windows across the room, snow kept falling.

I looked down on him once more, then placed his hand back at his side.

"Get some sleep, and I'll see you in the morning."

"'Kay …" And he was out. At least, for a while.

I went over to my side of the room and sat down. Kicked off my shoes, dumped my dirty clothes on the floor, and hung the blue backpack on the bed rail. I crawled beneath the covers and turned my face in his direction.

Sleep flew out the window and joined with the swirling snow.

I couldn't talk to him because he was snoring like a buzz-saw.

I pulled up the covers and turned onto my back on the solid little bed.

I turned my attention to the ceiling tiles, and as I did so, the patterns merged and ran together, skittering in and out like cells under a microscope. My friend had a lot of hard work in front of him if he were ever to walk again with a gait that was anywhere near normal.

However, I was certain Ed Thoreau and the other men on his team were cooking up something revolutionary by way of a state-of-the-art prosthesis that Kyle Calloway could handle, _would _handle, and ultimately conquer and make his own.

Thoreau had impressed me as uber-intelligent in his own right, and I believed there was some strange innovation pending that would set the science world on its ear. If not sooner, then certainly later. I recalled my friend talking at length about the thermonic biomedical anode that had been inserted into the dying muscle tissue of his crippled leg. It was not there for diagnostic purposes, nor did it give the leg any recuperative powers. It was there, then, in preparation for something else. Something that must have fed directly into his nervous system, skeletal system or circulatory system. Kyle suspected it, and I did too. The big question was: WHAT?

I knew the team had also saved the dead limb and put it on ice for further study. What the hell did they think they would find? Something mind-bending and revolutionary? Maybe. Maybe not. Somewhere there were answers. I hoped the team intended to keep us in the loop …

Damn … tomorrow was Christmas Eve.

And I was still wide awake; still counting the little round holes in the large square tiles in the big rectangular ceiling …

82


	21. Chapter 21

DARKENED WINGS

Chapter 21

"Making Some Domestic Adjustments"

CHRISTMAS EVE:

IT WAS 5:00 A.M. AND STILL DARK AS MIDNIGHT.

I'D COME AWAKE WITH THE HAIRS ON MY ARMS STANDING ON END. I'D SENSED HIM MOVING RESTLESSLY IN BED AND MURMURING TO HIMSELF IN WHISPERED TONES. RESTLESS ELBOWS SCRAPED OVER NEWLY STARCHED SHEETS IN THE NIGHTTIME STILLNESS. THIS HAD HAPPENED SO MANY TIMES IN THE PAST THAT ITS RENEWED ACTIVITY HAD ROUSED ME INSTANTLY. INTERMITTENT SCREECHES FROM A METAL-ON-METAL BED FRAME SCRAPED ACROSS MY NERVES LIKE AN ALARM GOING OFF. HE WAS IN PAIN, AND I WAS IMMEDIATELY ALERT. I THREW THE COVERS BACK AND STOOD UP. MOVED SILENTLY ACROSS TO HIS BEDSIDE AND LOOKED DOWN.

He was in REM sleep. His lips were moving: whispered words I couldn't make out. I paused, debating whether or not to wake him, but decided against it for the moment. His sleep wasn't peaceful, but at least it was sleep. His body was responding to sensations that the meds were only partially blocking from his brain. At his side, long fingers reached for the habitual contact points in the leg that was no longer there.

He was experiencing pain; phantom or otherwise I couldn't tell. Suddenly I wondered what it would be like … having ghostly symptoms that could never be pacified by physical contact. Never touched and never, ever soothed. Only endured. Always elusive and lurking and biting, while its victim sought in vain to find a way to pacify it.

I shuddered, debating.

Ultimately I reached down and touched his hand. Folded it into my own until I could feel his stiffened fingers beginning to release the tension. His restless elbows stilled. I pulled the visitors' chair closer by reaching out with my foot and dragging it over the smooth floor. Sat down and leaned into the contact, gently squeezing and releasing my grip. Eventually he stopped the reaching and allowed his entire arm to relax.

When he became quiet again, I positioned my head on the mattress with his hand still clasped in mine. I turned in the chair until I was able to attain some semblance of comfort. I tried to relax and maintain a vigil, hoping he would sense the presence of another warm body in close contact.

It was breaking daylight when I woke again. Our hands were still touching, and when I chanced to look up to gauge his status, he was staring back at me with those enormous blue eyes … just studying and studying.

"How long have you … ?" He whispered.

My back felt as though I'd been kicked by a mule, but I smiled and lied through my teeth. "Not long. Your snoring was keeping me awake."

"Yeah, and your grip on my hand has cut off the circulation. Now I have to have that amputated too. I hope you're happy."

I snorted a 'touche' and we both grinned.

The sky to the east was clearing. Snow on the windowsills outside looked to be piled to a height of at least a foot, and drifted by the wind into spectacular formations against the glass. White Christmas, as in: 'I'm dreaming of.'

"Looks like Ma Nature has finally let go with a whole shitload of white stuff," he said. "It's been building up for it all week. Nice thing to wake up to … if you don't have to slough around in it or shovel it …"

"Ummm …" I said. Not quite an answer, or a comment or an opinion. Just the acknowledgment that I'd heard what he said.

He did not complain of pain or demand any explanation why I was asleep at his side and holding his hand. We maintained the status quo, knowing that a discussion would bring up many unanswerable questions.

At 6:30 a.m. the hospital began to wake up. Boot stomping, coat shaking; murmured complaints about road conditions spoken in snatches. Someone pushing a pill cart was approaching in the corridor, and I heard one of the food carts jangle out of the elevator. Glass things began clinking and metallic things dinged against each other. Footsteps lost their night-shift stealth, and doors trundled open and clicked shut more often. Early morning voices opened up into casual conversation and occasional laughter as night people prepared to leave and daytime people were briefed on anything significant that might have occurred during the night.

I finally straightened in the chair and grimaced in pain as the muscles in my back bitched that I might want to remember I was no longer twenty years old. I creaked to my feet in the half light and stretched my body gradually until all the offended bones jolted themselves back into place. Snap, crackle and pop.

At that moment the room lights clicked on and a tiny Hispanic woman in a long white apron pushed a small breakfast cart before her and halted it beside Dr. Calloway's bed. Behind her, an orderly with an armload of sheets and pillowcases placed his burden on the night stand and hurried back to my friend's side to raise the head of his bed to a position that would be comfortable for him to eat his breakfast.

"You let me know when to stop, Doc," he said.

In my head, I was thinking: _'Even the orderlies and the household and kitchen staff know you!'_

The kitchen lady said, "Hi L'il Doc. Beautiful morning, no?"

"Unhhh … yeah it is … Si …"

In his bed, Kyle Calloway was sitting up straighter and looking intermittently pained and smug. He obviously knew that they knew who I was too. "That's good, Alex," he said. "Thanks."

"Sure, Doc …"

The two of them dispatched two trays of piping hot food on the rolling bed table and smiled at our obvious expressions of ravenous intent. "Breakfast is served," said Alex. "We'll be back for your trays in about fifteen minutes. Enjoy!"

I looked at him and he looked at me. "Real food at last," he exclaimed. "Damn! My stomach thinks my throat's been cut."

"Strange," I sniped. "Your stomach got it wrong … it's your damn leg that they cut!"

"Oh … you wound me." He grunted. Evidently he was getting used to his change in status … and I couldn't help wondering what would happen when he went to his first therapy session.

We lifted the covers from the trays and inhaled the aroma of what lay beneath. Eggs, sunny side up, two strips of bacon, a fruit cup, and two slices of wheat toast. Two cups of steaming hot coffee and two small glasses of orange juice. It wasn't exactly a feast fit for a king, but to us it sure looked like one.

"Oh god, I've died and gone to Las Vegas," he quipped.

We tried to eat slowly and savor the food, but it was useless. We ended up bolting everything like a couple of hungry puppies. Later, sated and leaning back, we sipped at the hot coffee and just melted into the fabric.

By 7:00 a.m., day shift was solidly entrenched and Hazel Braddock walked into the room with her little electronic notebook and another paper cup containing another dose of Tylenol-3. The potent stuff. I was sure this time.

He swallowed it without comment.

Alex and his partner in crime came for the breakfast trays, and left without speaking, since Hazel was there on "nursy" business.

"How was breakfast?" She inquired offhand.

Our chorus of … "Oh. Wow!" … made her laugh. "You will find that this institution breaks all the rules about hospital cuisine. Its food is ultimately edible."

Immediately she got down to serious business. "Kent, I am going to give Kyle some pointers on how to look after his stump, and how to move comfortably from his bed to a wheelchair and back again. We're going over to PT to try the parallel bars and do a few simple exercises. Ordinarily the PT staff would take care of this, but they're off until after Christmas, so he has to put up with me. And an orderly or two of my choice.

"While we're doing this, I'm going to ask you to take care of a few things at his place to make it easier for him when he returns home. You can also pack up some personal clothing to wear here, okay? Bring comfortable stuff; something that doesn't take much care. Don't rush. The snow has stopped and the crews are clearing the roads, but you may still run into some slippery conditions. It's beautiful out there, and you'll enjoy the ride. Drive slowly and come back safe, okay?"

She snapped open her notebook and took out a printed list of basic alterations and adjustments for a recent amputee's living arrangements in his-or-her home. I scanned it quickly and walked to the room's open door where my coat hung on the back. I lifted it and it was heavy. Its pockets were stuffed with everything I'd removed from the clothing I'd been wearing when I arrived. I stuffed the list in on top of everything else.

I turned back to the pile of clothing I'd scraped onto the floor last night, wondering how to compact them to take them back for washing.

At that precise moment, a young man arrived with a large plastic bag already half full of the clothing my friend had worn when we arrived here early yesterday morning. The kid dropped off the bag and then promptly left again. Well! Seemed there was at least _one _person who was not buddy-buddy with the famous 'Doc'.

I stared, first at Hazel, then at 'Kyle', who were watching me (I thought) with ill intent.

I walked to the doorway after stuffing my dirty clothing in on top of his. "I'm off. I'll see you later." My eyes fell on his face. "Be careful in the gym …"

He returned an expression of pained indulgence. "Yes, Mom."

I drove slowly and carefully, cautious of oncoming traffic, which wasn't much. The New Hampshire countryside was like a winter wonderland. Trees, everywhere I looked, were topped with crowns of pristine snow. Parked cars, fence rows, road signs and bushes were wearing staggered layers of white so bright that they hurt my eyes. I almost wished for sunglasses. Unfortunately I hadn't planned that far ahead and hadn't brought any with me.

The sun was like a gold medallion in the cloudless sky. "Ma Nature", as he'd called her, had used up all her bewitching glory on her work of the past twenty-four hours.

_Knock it off, you jibbering idiot, or you'll find yourself upside down in the ditch!_

I pulled the VW onto the sidewalk in front of his place. I would have to shovel snow, I acknowledged. Walks on all sides of the apartment were shoveled clean except his. I shut off the engine and activated the blinkers. I pulled the bags of clothing and junk from the diminutive rear seat and got out with them on the street side. Fortunately, snow ploughs had already gone through, and the streets were bare, even down to the macadam in places. Even on Christmas Eve morning. I hurried to his front door and picked his key out of the three or four on the chain.

I let myself in and stared at his door key for a moment in mild fascination. He had provided me with a key, and I had not even asked for it. I was feeling better and better about the two of us every minute. We could certainly weather the rest of the storm ahead with mutual respect. I wondered how the future might unfold if we worked at doing things right this time with as much stubborn determination as we had worked at destroying them before. Only time would tell.

I turned on the overhead light in his living room, tossed the plastic bag of dirty clothes on the sofa. I shouldered out of my jacket and left it there also. I went into his bedroom and set about digging some comfortable clothing from my overstuffed suitcases that stood at the foot of his bed. He wanted cutoff shorts, so I would have to find those also.

I wondered if he had a washer and dryer. If not, I would have to find a laundromat, and I'd really hate to have to do that. I began to investigate his apartment, leaving no stone unturned in the search. His place was compact and put together like … could I say it? … a brick shithouse. Not an inch of wasted space. It was in immaculate condition. Might he possibly employ a housekeeper? Surely some of the chores would be intimidating for a man who couldn't stand to touch his foot to the floor and was still in pain as he held it off the surface? It made sense, since the man I had known before had not been a pillar of neatness.

Inch by inch I began to case the joint and learn where things were. I snooped behind doors and into drawers; scrounged underneath cabinets and into chests and dressers. Even under the bed. Under coverlets and behind cupboards and curtains. Looked for cubby holes in the bathroom. Checked outside the back door, but only encountered a pile of drifted snow that stopped the door in its tracks. I reclosed the door and checked the lock. Everything was neatly arranged everywhere I looked. Nothing piled … or heaped … or stuffed into.

I stood in the middle of the compact kitchen and scratched my head. No laundry facilities. Damn!

_WAIT! What … ?_

Across from where I stood was an area I hadn't checked. Just a louvered cabinet, I had thought.

_Louvered!_

I walked to it and searched for a handle. Or handles. There were none. Frustrated, I pushed on it. There was a latch that activated when the front of the thing was depressed. I stood back quickly, and the louvered door swung open to catch on my shoe. Inside, filling a very small space, stood a compact washer and dryer stacked one atop the other.

_Wonderful!_

I almost danced a happy dance. I wouldn't have to go traipsing around to find a laundromat. In fact, I could go about completing all the other tasks I had come here to do while the stuff was washing.

So I did the laundry. All of it. It took four loads. These little machines were _not _the Maytags and Kenmores and Frigidaires that you see ads for on TV. These were like trying to shove socks into a thimble. But I did it because it needed to be done.

In the meantime I changed his bed. Set the used sheets aside to do at a later date, because we had to return the clean clothing to the hospital. I raised his bed three inches at the foot end to make it easier for him to sleep as his stump continued to heal. I changed places with his dresser and chest of drawers because he could see the TV better from atop the chest of drawers. I left enough space along the wall beside the bed to put a walker where he could reach it easily, or replace it with his wheelchair … whichever was more convenient at the moment.

The bathroom didn't need any changes. It was already fitted out with all the handicap devices the law would allow. The room was so small that he would have to be cautious in there, no matter how he moved around. But he already knew that. Other than replacing the throw rug in front of the sink with a serrated rubber mat, he was good to go.

I looked around the apartment and switched out anything that could possibly catch on the big wheels of his wheelchair, because he would be moving fast if I remembered correctly. I switched out the floor lamp to his end of the couch and the end table over beside the lounge chair.

When I finished, I stood and surveyed the changes. There was a clear path from living room to bath. Also from living room to bedroom, living room to kitchen, and from bedroom to bath.

In the kitchen, all the small appliances, from toaster to mixer to Ninja to coffee maker, were moved to spaces where he could easily reach them without getting out of the wheelchair. Everything came off the top shelf of the refrigerator to shelves where he could reach them also. Coffee beans and grinder were relocated to a shelf in the cabinet beside the sink. When he came home, he could move around and see what had been adjusted, and give whatever suggestions he thought might make it even easier.

When I was finished, the ambience of the tidy little apartment hadn't changed much, but there was nothing that would trip him up or catch somewhere and dump his ass on the floor. I heaved a sigh as I crossed the last thing off Hazel's list and headed for the strangely equipped bathroom to reward myself in a shower with gobs of soap and hot water.

When I had packed our clean clothes back into one of my big suitcases and returned it to the car, I discovered that someone had shoveled the sidewalks, all the way along the block where the apartment stood. Surprised, I looked all around, but there was no one on the street. I had been inside for more than three hours, but had neither seen nor heard a thing. I put the key into the ignition and started it up to get warm.

There was one more mission to accomplish…

Shaking my head, I hurried across to the Watson Inn and looked around for Lily. Of course she had seen me coming and was waiting in the lobby. She was looking at me so anxiously that I walked up to her and encircled her shoulders in a hug. "He came through the surgery very well, I'm happy to say. He said when I came back to check the apartment, I should come over and let you know that he was fine." He had done nothing of the sort, but I thought it would be a nice gesture if she thought he had …

She backed away from me, and I knew the words I offered were the ones she'd most wanted to hear. "I am so happy, L'il Doc. So happy. He is such a dear man, and he was in such great pain for such a long time. Please tell him we're all thinking about him …"

"I will," I said. "I promise. And now you must tell me something."

She looked at me with wide, questioning eyes.

"Lily … who shoveled the snow away from his place? Please tell me."

She gave me a smile that looked like the Man in the Moon. All pleased and joyous that I would even ask. "It was Jake and Joey," she said. "They work here, and sometimes on weekends they play poker with Doc. I will tell them you said thank you on Doc's behalf. They always do it for him because he cannot do it for himself."

I clasped both her cheeks between my hands and kissed her on the forehead. I came away with the aroma of gingerbread and cinnamon. "Thank you, Lily. I must go now. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, L'il Doc. I will tell Jake and Joey."

I turned and walked out onto the veranda, waving back over my shoulder.

I took one more turn around his place. My eyes stopped on his wheelchair. It might be a good idea to pack it into the car and take it along. It would be familiar to him and nobody would have to listen to any bitching about one of the hospital wheelchairs being to big … to small … too uncomfortable. I folded it and removed the footrests. It should fit into the back seat fine.

That being done, I returned to the apartment and made sure everything was turned off, battened down and waiting in 'stand-by' mode. I then locked the front door and walked to the car. I put it in 'drive' and pulled out slowly.

The snow had melted a little and the streets were sloppy. Outside of town I put the pedal to the metal and scooted back to where the most important person in my life was waiting.

89


	22. Chapter 22

DARKENED WINGS

Chapter 22

"The Pity Party"

HAZEL BROUGHT ME BACK TO MY ROOM JUST BEFORE NOON.

SHE HAD TO CALL ONE OF THE ORDERLIES FROM ANOTHER ROOM TO HELP LIFT ME OUT OF THE WHEELCHAIR SO I COULD GET BACK INTO BED. NO WAY COULD I HAVE DONE IT ON MY OWN. THE THING RATTLED AROUND LIKE AN OLD EXPRESS WAGON WITHOUT THE 'EXPRESS'. I COULD FEEL THE COLD SWEAT OF HUMILIATION AND ANGER COOLING MY NECK AND RUNNING DOWN THE MIDDLE OF MY BACK.

THIS WASN'T MY FIRST RUN AT PHYSICAL THERAPY.

BACK WHEN THE INFARCTION FIRST HIT AND MADE ME A PERMANENT CRIPPLE, I DID P.T. BECAUSE I HAD NO CHOICE. I HATED IT BECAUSE IT WAS MORE THAN PAINFUL. IT WAS DEBILITATING, AND I NEVER DID FINISH THE PROGRAM. I RAN OUT ON IT AS SOON AS I COULD NAVIGATE ON MY OWN, JUST AS I HAD ALWAYS RUN OUT ON THINGS THAT WERE OUTSIDE MY WARPED COMFORT ZONE. I PAID FOR IT WITH YEARS OF UNRELENTING PAIN. I VOWED THAT THIS TIME I WOULD GO THROUGH WITH IT IF IT KILLED ME.

WELL … GUESS WHAT … I JUST SCREWED UP MY FIRST SESSION.

MEANWHILE, BACK IN THE GYM:

I PULLED MYSELF UP BETWEEN THE PARALLEL BARS, SCARED AND LIGHT HEADED AND SHAKING LIKE A LEAF, WITH TOO MUCH HESITATION. HAZEL'S AND THE THERAPIST'S FIRM HANDS SUPPORTED MY HIPS AND STEADIED MY SHOULDERS. I COULD NOT BELIEVE THE WEAKNESS AND PAIN THAT GRIPPED MY RELUCTANT MUSCLES AND TRAVELED FROM HIP TO TOE IN MY ABSENT LEG. WITHIN THE TOO-SHORT SPACE OF TWENTY-FOUR HOURS, EVERYTHING HAD TURNED TO MUSH.

IT TOOK THREE PEOPLE JUST TO KEEP ME UPRIGHT; HOLDING ONTO ME AND MURMURING CONSTANT ENCOURAGEMENT. STILL, MY ARMS SHOOK AND MY HANDS BECAME SWEATED AND CRAMPED AND ACHING WITHIN A FEW SECONDS. I LOOKED DOWN THE LENGTH OF THOSE BARS, AND IT SEEMED LIKE ABOUT A MILE BETWEEN ME AND THERE. I RECALLED THE TIME MY DAD TOOK ME SKYDIVING. 'DON'T LOOK DOWN,' HE SAID, BUT 'DOWN' WAS THE ONLY DIRECTION THERE WAS TO LOOK.

BEHIND ME, ANOTHER PHYSICAL THERAPIST FOLLOWED CLOSE TO MY BUTT WITH THE DAMN OLD WHEELCHAIR WEDGED BETWEEN THE BOTTOM RAILS OF THE APPARATUS. I WAS CONCENTRATING SO HARD ON NOT FALLING THAT I COULD NOT FOCUS ON TAKING ONE STEP … EVEN A HALF-STEP … AT A TIME.

HALFWAY DOWN THE BARS, MY WOBBLY LEG COLLAPSED AND MY SLIPPERY HANDS SKIDDED OFF THE WOODEN RAILS. I NEARLY WENT DOWN IN A HEAP. I'D HAD NO IDEA I WAS THAT WEAK. THEY EASED THE WHEELCHAIR BEHIND ME AND I FELL INTO IT LIKE A TON OF BRICKS.

SO MUCH FOR P.T. SESSION NUMBER ONE.

When they finally got me settled back in my bed, the most I could do was sprawl there feeling light-headed and nauseous. My stump felt like it was ready to explode and my lost foot hurt so bad that I wanted to grasp it between both hands and literally pound away the throbbing. _ Memory of pain, _they said. Yeah, right! Instead, I had to endure the throb; my body jerking like an engine running out of gas each time a ghost dagger slashed into my phantom foot.

Hazel quickly hooked me back up to the low morphine drip that they'd originally planned to wean me from today. Wasn't happening. She raised the head of the bed a little and stood there looking at me in a disappointed manner. Quickly she checked BP and my other vitals and soon established the fact that I'd been so panicky during my first forage into walking on one leg that I'd overloaded my senses to the breaking point and the physical shock collapsed me. She handed me a cup with four pills in it: two were Tylenol, and I recognized the other one as a mild tranquilizer. I took them and kept my mouth shut.

While I lay there like a beached whale she took the bandages off my stump and gently cleansed it with mild soap and water. I could feel her manipulating around it in a distant sort of way; like I was partially detached from the sensation. Weird. I twisted myself so I could see what she was doing. Some of the swelling had gone down, but the line of staples still formed a ridge across the back of what was left of my leg. The two drains still embedded in my flesh were half full of excess fluid, and I knew that they could not be removed by tomorrow.

As my pulse rate gradually dropped and my sweat glands began to ease up before they drowned me in toxic fluids, I lowered my head back to the pillow. "Sorry," I said to Hazel. "I'm a coward. I guess it's really true that doctors make the worst patients …"

She gazed at me with those bewitching dark eyes, and then smiled sadly. She straightened from what she was doing for a moment and pointed a finger toward my face. "C'mon, Doc, let it go. Everyone has his own vulnerabilities. You've had more than your share of trauma during your lifetime. None of us knows how we'll react to it until we have to experience it for ourselves. Ed told me you fought for a lot of years to keep your leg. Now that it's really gone, your mind is telling you that you didn't do enough to save it. Well, I think you're wrong.

"Losing a limb the way you did is almost as bad as losing a member of your family. You're grieving, and you don't know what you'll do without it. You should have done more to save the family member's life. But you couldn't have. It was their time.

"Remember the four stages of grief, Doc. It'll get better, and so will you. Relax now, and let the pain go out of you."

I stared at her as she worked at rebandaging my stump and refitting a new stump shrinker over it. I could feel her tucking the drains against my hip. Some of the tension began to drain out of me like the excess fluids into the drainage cups.

_Denial, anger, bargaining, acceptance._

The four stages of grief: truths we seldom consider until they are thrust upon us. Hazel was right.

"Thank you," I said finally.

"You're welcome. You'll be doing all this washing and bandaging stuff on your own tomorrow. No reason for alarm. Once you do it a few times and get used to the contours and the strangeness of the feel, you'll be an expert. You also have to forget who else may be in the gym when you're there, and give it your best shot. Okay?"

"I'll try."

"Just remember what Yoda said to Luke Skywalker …" She pulled the sheet up to my waist and turned sharply at a familiar voice from the corridor.

"Look who's back …"

She waggled a finger-greeting to Kent Calloway who was standing in the doorway with the wheelchair from home. The pair of bright red crutches that were left in his car dangled from its frame, and a big suitcase filled the seat.

"He said 'Do or don't do. There is no _try!' _

"Hi L'il Doc," she said brightly. "You look like the Greek bearing gifts." Then her expressive face grew serious.

"He's all yours, Kent. Be gentle …"

Hazel finished up her ministrations and quietly left the room.

92


	23. Chapter 23

DARKENED WINGS

Chapter 23

"Being Gentle"

I ROLLED THE WHEELCHAIR OVER TO MY LITTLE BED, LIFTED OUT THE SUITCASE AND SET IT ON THE FLOOR. I TURNED THEN AND RETURNED THE WHEELCHAIR WITH THE CRUTCHES STILL HANGING, TO WHERE MY FRIEND LAY WATCHING, PAINED AND EXHAUSTED. THE PULSE-OX WAS BACK ON HIS FINGER, AND THE CARDIAC MONITOR BEEPED AWAY. THE MORPHINE DRIP WAS REATTACHED TO THE PORT ON HIS HAND, AND HE LOOKED OVER AT ME LIKE IT HURT HIS EYES TO TRACK MY MOVEMENTS. EVEN THE PROCESS OF SHIFTING HIS ATTENTION SEEMED TOO MUCH TROUBLE.

'BE GENTLE', HAZEL SAID. WHAT DID THAT MEAN?

I SAT DOWN IN THE VISITORS' CHAIR AND PULLED IT CLOSER TO HIS SIDE. I STUDIED HIM IN SILENCE AND TOOK NOTE OF THE HAGGARD FURROWS PRESSED INTO THE LINES OF HIS FACE. THE WAY HIS BEARD WAS BEGINNING TO FILL IN AND THE MUCH-TOO-LONG HAIR, MADE HIM LOOK HOMELESS AND A LITTLE VACANT, WHICH I KNEW HE DEFINITELY WAS _NOT_. HIS HAIR WAS STILL DAMP FROM THE P.T. SESSION, AND HUNG OVER HIS FOREHEAD IN STRINGY CLUMPS.

"Interesting workout?" I asked.

He was not too distressed to glower. "Interesting for _everybody,_" he snarled.

When this man is too washed out to retort to a smart-aleck comment, something is wrong. "Care to tell me about it? Or is it personal?" I reached for his free hand at the same moment he reached for mine.

"It's not personal when the whole goddamn hospital gets to watch it …"

"Well, _I_ don't know about it. Enlighten me? Are you all right? Are you hurt?"

It gave him an opening that, I believe, he was looking for.

"Not hurt. I'm fine. I just made an ass of myself in front of a whole gym full of P. T. patients and physical therapists, and who-the-hell knows who else ..."

"How?"

"Almost knocked myself out. Nearly landed on my can between the parallel bars. Couldn't even make it from one end to the other …"

"There's no rule that says you have to. It's your first day at this. You're a brand new amputee. Give yourself some slack." I squeezed his hand for emphasis.

"You sound like Hazel," he said. "But I think I disappointed her today."

"I doubt that. More like, perhaps, she may have been hurting for you. 'Disappointed'? No, I don't think so."

He contemplated my response for a long time. I could hear the little cogs inside his head grinding away. The tired blue eyes practically pinned me to the wall. At long last, he answered.

"Do you think I'm still an ass?"

"What? No!"

"Do I seem any different now than I was in Jersey?"

I snorted. So loud that I sounded like a little pig. Then I laughed. Then I rolled my eyes and gave him my best 'exasperated' look. Like the old days.

"Migod, yes! Like night and day … and it drives me crazy sometimes. You're more laid back, except maybe times like now when you're so unsure of yourself. You're even willing to conduct a two-way conversation with people, instead of shouting in their faces and walking away. A little less judgmental … and a lot more cautious."

"Seriously?"

"Yes. Did you really think I wouldn't notice? And why is it so important all of a sudden?"

He paused to think again. Then he poked an index finger into his mouth to snap it loudly a couple of times on an upper tooth. A thinking tool.

"Because," he said finally, "I've turned into a candy ass. In my former life I was strong as an ox. And now I'm not. I'm weak and wobbly and insecure … I jump at every sound. I'm afraid of therapy, and I'm scared as hell that I made the wrong decision in agreeing to have my leg taken off. That bothers me more than anything else. Things just don't normally go well for me … and this time … _time_ certainly isn't on my side. I want to be wrong. Dammit, I do. But I don't think so. I think I need to go back to being the old 'me'. The bastard. And I can't believe I'm telling you all of this …"

His eyes were unusually bright, as though he were holding back tears, but just barely. "I don't think I can handle being this kind of emotional. I don't make sense, even to myself. I don't know how to be kind. Or accommodating. It feels … all wrong."

"I can't believe you're telling me this either," I growled. "You listen to me! I've only been here … what … five days at the most?

"Unlike the Jerk from Jersey, you have a huge support group in this place. More than you ever had back there. People here have gotten to know the person you've chosen to be, and they care about you. I'd be willing to bet that you never had anything like it before in your life. I certainly wouldn't want to lose any of that if I were you. Personally, I think the way you are now represents the man you really are; much more than the Jersey Jerk. You need to think about that a little more. Sometimes it overwhelms me at the number of people you seem to be friends with, and who want to be friends with you. Do you _know _what that means in a man's life?

" I'm jealous as hell of you. And I admire you. "Right now you're all mixed up about things because you just lost a really important piece of yourself. That's a huge change to get used to all at once, and it scares the hell out of you. It would scare the hell out of me too, if I had to go through it.

"So, come on, 'Kyle Calloway', or whatever you want to be called from now on … you've been my best friend for half our lifetimes, and you're still the most important person in my life. Always were.

"When you're scared, I'm here to shore you up if you need it. I'll give you a hug when you need one of those. And I'm not afraid to help you keep your act together by wrapping my arms around you and penning it all inside, if that'll make you feel safe. You don't have to be scared of _anything_ if you don't want to be. And I'm sure you don't want to be.

"You didn't make an ass of yourself today.

"And you didn't disappoint Hazel.

"And you'll _never_ disappoint me!"

When I finally shut up, he was staring at me with his mouth open.

There was a prolonged and awkward silence that neither of us had any idea how to move beyond.

And then he smiled, a little sadly.

"I don't know what to say … except 'thanks'. I think I really needed to hear that."

And then the lunch lady appeared in the doorway. "Anybody in here hungry? Si?"

_Oh, you'd better believe it, sister!_

"Si, Senora!"

95


	24. Chapter 24

DARKENED WINGS

Chapter 24

"Best Laid Plans"

IT WAS ALREADY GETTING DARK. HAZEL CAME BY ABOUT 5:00 IN THE AFTERNOON.

HOORAY!

UNTIL THEN WE'D BEEN MOSTLY SITTING AROUND STARING AT THE TV, IGNORING SOME OF THE CHRISTMAS JUNK LOCAL STATIONS SHOVE AT PEOPLE EVERY YEAR AT THIS TIME. I SAT WITH MY HAND CUPPED AROUND MY ACHING STUMP AND BITCHED IN LOW TONES ABOUT THE GARBAGE ON THE TUBE. WE MIGHT HAVE VISITED ONE OF THE PREMIUM CHANNELS, BUT THE FARE OVER THERE WASN'T ANY BETTER.

JIMMY STEWART AND MARGARET O'BRIEN MOVIES DRONED ON UNTIL I JUST WANTED TO GAG. DOES MY LOUSY ATTITUDE SHOW? KIDS ARE OFF FROM SCHOOL AND JITTERY ABOUT SANTA CLAUS COMING TO TOWN, AND ALL THAT GARBAGE. THIS IS SUPPOSED TO ENTERTAIN THEM? FOR SOME REASON, THAT'S WHAT THE NETWORKS THINK PEOPLE WANT TO SEE EVERY CHRISTMAS. NOT ME.

WHERE THE HELL ARE GIBBS AND DiNOZO WHEN YOU NEED 'EM? WHERE ARE THE X-MEN? THERE WON'T BE ANYTHING NEW ON TV UNTIL THE MIDDLE OF JANUARY. WE RAN ALL THE DAMN CABLE CHANNELS FROM A-TO-ZILCH, AND THIS WAS ALL THERE IS, BESIDES 'CALL-THE-BATH-FITTER', AND 'TRIM-YOUR-NOSE-WITH-NO-NO', AND THE MORMON TABERNACLE CHOIR. WE WERE NOT IN THE MOOD. **I'M **NOT IN THE MOOD!

HAZEL'S ENTRANCE WAS A HUGE RELIEF. LITTLE BROTHER KENT'S EYES LIT UP LIKE SHE WAS THE STAR OF DAVID AT THE TOP OF HIS HANUKKAH TREE. I SMILED AT THE FACT THAT HE STILL HAD AN EYE FOR THE LADIES. HAZEL, OF COURSE, WAS BABE ENOUGH IN HER OWN RIGHT TO EVEN TEMPT A SIDEWAYS LEER FROM A MEMBER OFTHE ARIAN BROTHERHOOD.

"How is everything?" Was the first question out of her mouth. Naturally. She was being "nurse-like" for a change.

"Talk to him!" said my tattle-tale 'brother'. "He's been rubbing at his stump all afternoon, but he won't let me near him."

Hazel turned to me sternly, her eyes shooting sparks. "What about it, Dr. Calloway? Is he right?"

_So it's 'Dr. Calloway now' … we're getting formal._

I sighed, but had the sense to keep quiet. For a few seconds anyway. I also needed to be totally honest if I wanted her trust. And I wanted her trust. "It's been hurting … more than it should, probably. The morphine drip isn't holding it off anymore. And the pills aren't working."

In the distance I heard the TV snap off. My friend was watching and listening with both eyes and both ears.

Hazel was already lowering the head of my bed. "Let's get you undone here so I can check."

Kent was suddenly standing at her side. "What can I do to help?"

I was holding my breath, wishing he would just get the hell out of there. Fat chance!

"Bring the cart over here, okay? You can help me take a look." She was already pulling on a fresh pair of rubber gloves.

He strode to the space beyond the end of his bed and rolled the medicine cart across where I could see him as he looked down at me in concern. I wished he wouldn't do that.

_Ask a guard dog not to growl!_

Hazel had already taken off the stump shrinker, thereby relieving some of the pressure. It had caused a bit of swelling while it was on. It felt even better when she had the bandages off. The problem, she said, was clearly visible. One of the drains had come loose; popped the suture and leaked out the tube, saturating the bandages with the raw sewage from the reopened wound in the stump. The shrinker had hidden the damage. The end of the tube had rubbed the wound raw and I had not felt it … only the pressure.

I heard her sigh with relief; and beside her, Kent slumped and made a wry face. He had been worried, poor little goof.

"You know what?" She said. "These drains are coming out. Now. I was going to wait another day, but they're doing more harm than good. We'll just keep more padding under the bandages. We need to keep a closer watch on things. Change your dressings more often."

She pulled a thin pair of stainless steel retractors from their sterile wrap and quickly removed the suture that held the second drain in place. A square of sterile gauze saturated with antiseptic swabbed the two tiny wounds, and when the wet pad touched the skin I winced. I had felt the cold. Some sensation other than pain was slowly returning. Hazel drew the drains away and dropped them into the plastic bag for contaminated waste. She followed them with the rubber gloves and zipped it up. Then she pulled on another pair. I could feel the lotion being applied; not so distant a sensation as the last time. Wow!

"Did you feel that?"

I nodded. "Uh-huh. Cold. And then your fingers palpating a little. It stopped hurting."

"Good. Very good. We're making progress!

"For the rest of the day, and tonight, I'm going to roll two more hot towels to hold you still. I won't pull your bandages quite so tight; keep you from swelling again. Ready?"

I nodded as she and 'little doc' (ha ha) rebandaged my stump and placed it on a wedge of sterile pad about a half-inch thick. "Is that what you call 'elevated'?" I asked.

She grinned. "Nope, that's what I call absorption. Okay … I'm going over for the towels. Don't go anywhere." She was pulling off another pair of gloves as she stomped out the door.

I snorted at the ridiculousness of the remark. "'Don't go anywhere' … right!" Little brother was all smiles. His victories are sometimes infinitesimal … but heartfelt.

The towels, when she brought them, made me feel like I was being cradled in a hammock of the gods. No strain, no pain. My next goal was to be free of the morphine drip. To be pain-free without any narcotics: the best of all possible worlds. I was comfortable but discontent. I had an itch I couldn't scratch, and it had nothing to do with the condition of my stump.

Hazel stood looking down at me with her hands on her hips, contemplating … something. I was a little suspicious. "What?"

She stood staring at me. "What are you thinking? You have a devious mind."

_Oh man … we are silently accusing each other of conspiracy …_

"I'm thinking," I said with a touch of snark, "that I _need_ to get out of this room. My rear end is growing calluses. I need to get out, maybe go for a walk. Something. Just to see if I can."

She frowned and her jaws came open.

"No! Wait! Hear me out."

Her mouth closed. And Kent's dropped open. It was so good not to hurt. I hid behind my hand to keep from laughing. I felt like I was in "The Muppet Movie".

"I want to see if I can use the walker … see if I'm strong enough. I made a lousy showing in the gym this morning, and I need to know if I can do better than that. I'll be careful and I'll move slow. Kent can walk along beside me with the wheelchair in case I get into trouble. Whaddaya say, huh?"

Beside us, Kent-baby was rolling his eyes.

"Whoa! Hold on here, Chuck Norris. I have a better idea." She was holding both hands out in front of her, fingers splayed in a "pause" motion. "What if …"

_Uh Oh …_

"What if we wait until after you have your supper … which will probably be arriving in a couple of minutes. There are too many people … too many things in the corridor to distract you right now. You know I'm right. You know you're not that steady.

"You wait for an hour after supper, until it digests … and you'll love tonight's supper. It's Christmas Eve, remember? Anyhow, after that it's unlikely anybody will be in the gym or working P.T. We'll have it all to ourselves. You can go there and try the parallel bars again. Don't look at me like that. I don't want you to injure yourself and set back your healing … by weeks, maybe. If you do it my way, I'll help you. If you don't, I won't, and you'll be stuck in your room. I'll call a couple of staff people to run interference on both sides of you to be safe. If you make it to the other end of the bars without going on your butt, I'll consider letting you 'walk' with Kent tomorrow. A very short distance. Christmas present from me. Do you think that's fair?"

We glared at her for endless moments. She pursed her lips and waited.

I nodded sharply. Once.

Kent Calloway turned all fluffy. Like a happy puppy.

Down the hallway we heard the elevator doors slide open and the meal cart thump across the threshold. Dinner was here.

Hazel grinned and winked. "Later," she said, and walked out. I decided she was up to something.

Dinner was to die for. Beef Wellington, medium rare; the puff pastry oven-fresh and golden brown. We could smell the curry and the allspice and the ginger. It was served with oven-roasted baby potatoes and shiny asparagus spears that looked fresh from the garden. There was cole slaw that tasted like ambrosia, and a dessert called Jello-ice cream that turned to liquid as soon as it passed your lips. The coffee was hot and strong, and came with a carafe that promised each of us another cup. A small saucer of mouse-ear mints topped things off to perfection, and the tray was decorated with pine boughs and tiny pine cones, making the medicinal hospital room smell like the middle of a forest.

When we finished, our plates were scraped clean and we were kicked back with our second cup of coffee, stifling contented burps with the backs of our hands.

When Hazel returned a little over an hour later, we were still too full to move. She laughed. "I thought so …"

The rigorous exercise I had so carefully planned fell by the wayside, and she'd probably made a bet with herself that it would happen that way. I and my warm towels and my not-painful stump slept like a log (no pun intended) all night.

We'd been easily outmaneuvered by a canny nurse!

99


	25. Chapter 25

DARKENED WINGS

Chapter 25

"Mele Kalikimaka"

MY EYES OPENED LEISURELY AT 7:00 A.M.

I LOOKED AROUND, ACCLIMATING MYSELF. WAS I REALLY IN A HOSPITAL? AND HAD I ACTUALLY ALLOWED PART OF MY BODY TO BE SURGICALLY DETATCHED? I REACHED DOWN TO CHECK AND ENCOUNTERED NOTHING BUT EMPTY SPACE. NO PITTED THIGH TO SUDDENLY GO INTO SPASM AND NO QUAKING NERVE ENDINGS TO DRIVE ME OUT OF MY MIND WITH PAIN. NO VICODIN IN MY FIST READY TO TAME THE SAVAGE BEAST. JUST A TRUNCATED LUMP OF FLESH WHERE THERE ONCE RESIDED A LEG.

I TOOK A DEEP BREATH THROUGH MY NOSE AND LET IT OUT MY MOUTH. SLOW AND EASY. AND AGAIN. I TURNED MY HEAD TO THE WALL, BUT THE TEARS DIDN'T COME. MAYBE THINGS WERE LOOKING UP.

MY EYES WANDERED ACROSS THE ROOM TO THE BUNK BENEATH THE WINDOWS. SOMETIMES THE MAN OVER THERE MADE ME SMILE JUST BY BEING HIMSELF. THIS MORNING HE WAS CURLED UP LIKE A LITTLE BEAR, ALL IN A BALL ON HIS RIGHT SIDE, LEFT ARM DANGLING OVER THE EDGE OF THE BED, PJ BOTTOMS SCRUNCHED UP PAST HIS KNEES. HIS RIGHT HAND WAS NESTLED DOWN NEAR HIS CROTCH, GENTLY RUBBING. I FOUND MYSELF CAUGHT SOMEWHERE BETWEEN A SENSE OF SURPRISED EMBARRASSMENT AND PRURIENT CURIOSITY.

A LITTLE KID HAVING A NOCTURNAL ACCIDENT, MAYBE. OR ELSE A HORNY TEENAGER HUMPING IN HIS DREAMS. THE SIGHT MADE ME SMILE. AND THEN LAUGH OUT LOUD …

… WHICH MADE HIM JOLT AWAKE AND SQUINT OVER AT ME. BY THAT TIME I HAD CEASED LAUGHING. THE BODY MOVEMENT AND VIBRATION HAD MADE MY STUMP HURT AND MY HIP ACHE WITH AN ODD FEROCITY THAT RIVALED THE OLD PAIN IN MY THIGH.

"DAMMIT MAN, STOP THAT!"

"STOP WHAT?"

WHEN AN ADULT HONESTLY DOES NOT UNDERSTAND WHAT ANOTHER ADULT FINDS SO FUNNY ABOUT HIM WHILE HE'S GETTING BOMBARDED WITH SARDONIC LAUGHTER, HE NEEDS TO ASK A FEW DIRECT QUESTIONS. NO?

"SCRATCHING YOUR BALLS!" I GROWLED.

"OH … WAS I?"

I CRINGE WHEN A MAN HIS AGE IS SO THOROUGHLY AND INNOCENTLY … _CLUELESS!_

The breakfast cart was on its way. I heard it trundle out of the elevator and begin to approach from beyond the nurses' station. Morning reports were still being made and two or three phones were ringing at once.

Oblivious to it all the P.A. system was playing:

"_God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay …"_

"Oh for …"

"Olla, Senor Doc … Merry Chrees-tmas! And you too, L'il Doc." The little Hispanic lady with the too-long apron stopped her cart and removed the lids from the two breakfast trays. Her taller companion lifted both trays; placed them on my rolling bed table.

"Mele Kalikimaka!" I said, making the effort to be accommodating.

The two of them stared at me as though I'd cursed at them.

"It's Hawaiian for 'Merry Christmas'," I explained.

They said: "Oh. Gracias," and continued doing what they were doing.

Across the room, Kent Calloway adjusted his P.J. bottoms and hurried over to remove the towels from against my sides and raise the head of my bed. I was achy and uncomfortable and I wished the rest of the crap they'd stuck into me was _gone. _ I took the pulse ox off my finger and tossed it to the foot of the bed. The monitor started to wail. All that was left now was the cardiac monitor, but I knew I would catch royal hell if I removed that myself.

Kent gave me the evil eye and strode over to turn the monitor off before the entire squad of waiting baby sitters converged on this room to see what the hell was going on.

The breakfast cart was just being moved out the door when Hazel stuck her head around the corner. "Sorry, I got hung up this morning. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas," we said at the same time, and around mouthfuls of hash browns.

"I need to go to the head soon," I told her.

Immediately she pushed away the table and cleared the area so I could get to the wheelchair. All I had left was my coffee, and I finished it in one colossal gulp. "Always at your service, sir," she teased with a bow.

I gave her a dirty look, but didn't respond. I was too achy and my bottom hurt too much. They'd removed my catheter yesterday before my ill-fated trip to the gym, but my privates were still a tad sensitive. I nodded a 'thank you' and pushed upward to be assisted into the wheelchair.

I felt immediately lightheaded and raised both arms in a signal to give me a minute. They waited patiently while I took deep breaths. Finally the room stopped swimming. I gave the go-ahead and found that I was suddenly standing between them, leaning like a tall cement post on both their shoulders. Actually I was standing up straight on a strong, healthy leg that was seriously happy about being given something to do.

I smiled. Then I grinned. Then I laughed out loud.

And I found that they were laughing with me and wondering if I might be losing my mind.

"Now! Please! Gotta _go potty_!"

I was in the wheelchair and moving. Then I was in the bath and sitting on the 'ivory throne'. All my 'downstairs plumbing' was suddenly working the way it was supposed to.

I mean _everything. _

Hazel and Kent were both choking and hacking and making a circus of it … until I mentioned the old Bill Cosby LP that described in detail his baby son's first bowel movement. "Ooooh … looky … baby make a poo poo …"

They got very quiet very quickly. And I was able to finish the job and the cleanup on aisle three … all by myself!

In the afternoon I got my trip to the gym.

Hazel and L'il Doc pushed me up within reach of the damn parallel bars. I thrust both arms out and upward and pulled like hell. This time I wasn't scared of anything. Fueled only with determination. The two of them guided me from the side, and I pushed up with every ounce of strength I could gather.

And I was up. Wobbling like a weed on a windy day. Nervous and shaking. All my dangly things hurt like hell. My stump pounded and felt as though everything inside it was ready to bust its way out the bottom. My back was stiff and the right hip refused to function. Contracture? I hoped not.

I stood. Panting. Waiting for the determination to morph into command. Then I began to move. One hop-step at a time. Down the length of the bars. My companions were quiet, not wanting to distract me. And then the strength was there. I could feel the burn of lax muscles as they began to warm up. My breath caught in my throat, but the word "quit" was no longer part of my vocabulary. I pushed upward, and my body, too long in repose, responded. I could feel the heat and pure joy of honest sweat beading on my forehead, wetting my hair and trickling down between my shoulders. This time it was earned!

Old Kyle Calloway was finding his way back.

I turned around very carefully at the end of the bars and slowly teetered in the opposite direction. Hazel and Kent were jumping up and down beside me; hollering, hugging each other and letting their voices echo joyously in the emptiness of the gym. It felt great. In the hall outside, standing in an open doorway, five or six other people watched apprehensively as I completed the return trip. Not like yesterday when an entire therapy group stared in helpless consternation as I panted and snarled and nearly went on my ass. I heard a loud: "Yaaaaay …" before they faded away like little mice, back to their duties.

When they lowered me into the wheelchair again, I was laughing and sweating and bawling and I didn't know which was which. Didn't care. I was exhilarated. "Merry Christmas!" I shouted it at the tops of my lungs. I had never had a merrier Christmas.

That night, the dinner with turkey and all the trimmings took a back seat to the triumphs of the day.

Hazel disconnected the cardiac leads and stowed them away. Removed the ports and threw them in the contaminated waste bag. She pulled the green gown aside and listened to my chest. I asked if I were still alive and she said "yes!" We talked at length about the uphill battle I still had ahead of me. Tomorrow was a work day and Ed Thoreau would be back. We all decided the excrement would _really_ hit the cooling device then.

At 8:00 P.M. Hazel and I changed my bandages again, and there was very little leakage into the extra pads. She gave me a cup with two white pills in it. I took them without question, crumpled the cup and highballed it into the waste can. She withdrew the morphine drip, turned off the canister and hung the tubing on the dolly. "Let's see how you do without it tonight. If your pain ramps up overnight, call me and we'll just reattach. Oh yeah … by the way … I want you to get dressed tomorrow too. I'm sick and tired of seeing you look like an invalid. You're not."

"I need to get clipped up-top the way I'm clipped down below, don't you think?"

"Dammit, Doc, I'm working on it!"

We laughed, and she knew she'd gotten the reaction she was looking for. I nodded, happy as hell to be finished with the rest of the tethers and harnesses and intravenous lines. By 8:30 she was ready to go. "I have the day off tomorrow, but Brandy will be here." Pushing the med pump before her, she paused in the doorway. "Sleep well, Doc. Tomorrow your work really begins. 'Night Kent-Little Doc' … sounds like a Cheyenne Medicine Man. I'll see ya …"

That night I was too psyched to sleep. About 9:00 p.m. the sweet little lunch lady brought us a carafe of coffee and wedges of cherry pie. I called her over to my bed, pulled her shoulders close and planted a kiss on her forehead. I didn't know an Hispanic lady that dark could turn such a bright shade of crimson.

After she left, Kent glared at me from across the room and said under his breath: "You never kiss _me _like that."

I laughed, a little embarrassed. "If you weren't so damned ugly, I might."

103


	26. Chapter 26

DARKENED WINGS

Chapter 26

"Nose to the Grindstone"

December 26th:

SNOW QUICKLY MELTED FROM THE ROAD OUT FRONT. MOST OF WHAT REMAINED HAD TURNED BRACKISH AS IT MIXED WITH DIRT THE SNOW PLOWS KICKED UP, AND THE SLOSHY MUD LEFT BEHIND BY ROAD TRAFFIC.

IT WAS BACK TO 'BUSINESS AS USUAL' ON THE MONDAY AFTER CHRISTMAS. WINDOWS IN EVERY AREA WERE FRAMED BY SMALL DIAMOND-LIKE ICICLES THAT HUNG FROM THE CASINGS AND SHED THEIR WATER DROPLETS QUICKLY BENEATH A BRIGHT MORNING SUN. THERE WERE DELIVERY TRUCKS AND FOOD VANS WAITING TO UNLOAD OUTSIDE THE KITCHEN AREA ON THE GROUND FLOOR, AND THEIR EXHAUST TRAILS ROSE INTO THE AIR, DISSIPATING LIKE GHOSTS ACROSS THE WINDOW.

THE HOSPITAL WAS BACK TO FULL CAPACITY, STAFFWISE. THERE WERE (THANKFULLY) NO MORE CHRISTMAS CAROLS. THERE _WAS _MORE CHATTER, MORE CLINKING AND CLANKING, AND IT SEEMED TO ME, MORE PATIENTS ON THE FLOOR. MAYBE SOME OF THEM HAD GONE HOME FOR CHRISTMAS, AND WERE NOW BACK. ALL THE MED TRAYS AND BREAKFAST CARTS WERE MOVING A LITTLE SLOWER. THERE WERE TWO LARGE FOOD CARTS INSTEAD OF ONE, AND OUR SWEET LITTLE HISPANIC LADY WAS NOWHERE TO BE SEEN. NOR WAS HER TALL COMPANION. IN THEIR PLACE WE HAD A THIN FORTYISH BLOND WOMAN WITH PART OF HER PONYTAIL DYED PINK. WHICH 'KYLE' EYED WITH OPEN DISDAIN. AND A CUTE YOUNGER WOMAN WITH RED HAIR, FRECKLES AND GLASSES.

Kyle had dressed himself this morning and was perched on his bed, foot drawn up almost to his body, wearing cut-off jeans, a gray sock and one of his gawdy tee-shirts. He was massaging his stump very gently, and I wondered whether he might be experiencing some phantom pain. But then he always seemed to be fussing with it … getting used to the newness, maybe. When our breakfast cart arrived outside the door, he scrambled to pull the sheet up to his waist. I looked across and grinned at him, but didn't say anything to put him on the spot. He was not yet ready to bare his stump to strangers.

Breakfast was totally mundane after the offerings of Christmas Day, but we ate our scrambled eggs, sausage patties and home fries just as eagerly. We were finishing the dregs of our coffee when Brandy Lantz rounded the corner, her dark hair all flyaway and hanging below her shoulders. Her arms were loaded with clean sheets, a plastic container of private stuff, and a three-ring notebook in which she kept her daily journal up to date. She plopped everything on the rolling table near Kyle's bed. She then turned to look at us; one and then the other.

"I'm really running late this morning, guys … sorry. Anyhow, good morning. Did you have a nice Christmas and a good night last night?"

"I'd much rather have tied one on at Mohegan Sun," Kyle grumped, "but under the circumstances, it was a very exciting day."

I stared at him. There was something brewing.

Brandy stared at him, scowling. "'Exciting?'"

"I'm an athlete, haven't you heard? I have now conquered the parallel bars. And I'm going to conquer them again today. And tomorrow and the day after. And next week and next month …"

_Uh-oh. Is he headed for the dark side?_

I saw Brandy's head come up quickly. She had heard the wavering tone in his voice also, and did not allow him to go any further with it. "No, I didn't know that. But my other patients say those things are a real pain in the neck. You need to fill me in on everything and get me caught up. I did hear that you were able to navigate them yesterday for the first time, and that's the first really big step toward your freedom. But if you thought that was difficult, just wait 'til you see all the cool stuff coming up that Dr. Thoreau has planned for you."

He looked at her, wary but interested. I was pleased to see she had broken his inclination toward self-indulgence that I don't think even he realized he was headed for. "I knew things were going to heat up today," he said. "The Boss already warned me. So … when do we get the show on the road?"

She smiled, looked across to me and winked. "The show gets on the road as soon as you change your dressings and bathe your stump … and don't forget to wipe it gently with the cloth. Desensitizes the skin a little more each time you do it. I'm sure Kent will help you if you need him. Anyway, I've got to go over and get into my scrubs and tie up this flyaway hair. Give me ten minutes, okay?" She grabbed her journal and plastic box and flew out the door.

It was hardly anything we could say 'no' to.

"Do you need my help?" I asked as I hastened to close the door. He did not need a cheering section. I took the folded sheets and placed them on my bed. Walked back and stopped. Watching him. He looked a little unsure of himself.

"This is the first time I've done this by myself. I need a soapy washcloth, the lotion, and a bag for the contaminated waste. And fresh bandages, although I don't know why. The staple area isn't draining, and there's no open wound. The little cut is sealed, I think."

"Ask Ed Thoreau when he comes in. He may want you to try a shrinker again. We'll leave the bandages off for now and let it get some air …"

I went into the bathroom to gather the supplies he would need.

I came back out with an armful of stuff and watched him struggle to remove his shorts, kick them off the bed and get serious about taking care of his stump.

"How's it look?" He asked. He had the bandages off and was stuffing them into the waste bag. None of them looked soiled. Maybe he could do with just an elastic bandage. "I can't bend down that far. More important, how's it smell? Am I pinked up, or is there sewage running out?"

He looked at me like I'd been doing this forty years. From my position, his skin tone looked okay, but it was a little off-putting to bend down to mattress level and actually sniff …

I heard him laugh as I leaned over the bed. Obviously he'd sensed my discomfort. "You don't have to shove your nose up my butt, you know. If nothing smells like yesterday's road kill from there, then I figure it's okay."

I straightened and rolled my eyes; made a wry face.

He laughed again, but was already busy with the warm wash cloth, sliding it gingerly across his stump, hissing through his teeth. Then down and around, maneuvering his body to avoid placing too much pressure on the wound.

"OW!" Suddenly he swore. He tugged on the cloth, but it had caught on his staples; actually, one of the staples.

"Can you get that?"

"Yeah … lift up a little, can you?"

His rear end came off the surface of the bed, pushed upward with his healthy leg, but I fixated on the fact that his stump remained rooted like it was held down by a magnet. _Uh-oh. _ I reached beneath him to free the dangling threads.

My grandmother used to say: 'Your nose never itches until you're stuffing the turkey …'

I heard the door snick open while I was bent over with my fingers very near his crotch. Kyle turned his head in that direction just as I untangled the frayed washrag from beneath him.

The next thing we heard was the sound of two voices lifted in helpless laughter.

"I certainly hope we haven't interrupted anything important, gentlemen!"

Ed Thoreau's baritone guffaws echoed in the room, and Brandy Lantz, close behind him, provided soprano accompaniment that sounded like a duet between an a cricket and a bullfrog. I could feel my face turning red. Beside me, Kyle's lips were pursed, cheeks inflated like small balloons.

"Oh crap! Caught in the act!" He growled.

"Well!" Thoreau began. "I see you're in good spirits and your toxic sense of humor is off and running again. You're also off the drains and off your IVs. I'm sure that's a good thing, but I want to check to make sure it's not too soon.

He and Brandy were both in uniform-of-the-day now: lab coats and stethoscopes around their necks. Pocket protectors full of pens, hospital IDs hanging from their pockets. Very official.

Brandy was already lifting the wall-mounted BP cuff from its holder as she flipped the switch that turned on the unit. She had the cuff on Kyle's arm almost before he knew what hit him. We watched the red and blue display closely as the cuff began to fill. Nobody mentioned the bare-naked stump.

"120/80," said Thoreau as Brandy released the machine's pressure. "Looks good for now," he said. "But we need you to get off your lazy ass and moving. Your BP won't look like a twenty-year-old's for long." He removed his stethoscope from around his neck and inserted the fobs into his ears. Three stops on the chest, three on the back. "Take a deep breath… again … again. Okay, relax. You're good to go, I think." His little penlight flitted from one of Kyle's eyes to the other. "Both headlights seem to be working, electrical system up and running."

"Brandy, would you get me some fresh stump socks and a shrinker in this man's size, please? While you're doing that, I'm going to check him and see how the wound is doing … and make sure he doesn't snag his washcloth on the staples again …"

"Yes, doctor. Be right back."

Thoreau sat down on the bed at Kyle's side the moment Brandy was gone. "I'm going to talk to you man-to-man, my friend. No clinical nonsense. I want you to tell me truthfully. No macho bullshit … I know you're very manly, so don't hand me any crap. Agreed?"

My 'brother' nodded. His eyes were as sincere as I'd ever seen them; his demeanor, as quiet.

"Okay."

Thoreau put on a pair of rubber gloves and snapped them tight. He reached a hand slowly inside Kyle's underwear. I could tell he was manipulating his patient's testicles and penis, pressing carefully around the areas where his upper legs met his lower torso. Around to his anus and then back. "Cough," he said. Kyle coughed. "And again." He coughed a second time. "Anything hurt when you did that? Even the slightest discomfort?"

Kyle was laughing painfully, not sure how to describe the sensation. His chin was deep in his chest when he finally answered. "I felt some pain in my phantom foot when I coughed. My staples pulled and my pecker said 'ouch' when you yanked on it. It's not a dinner bell. Other than that, nothing."

"Still a bit of phantom pain, huh?" Thoreau was trying not to laugh. "That's something you have to put up with, but it'll diminish as time passes. Did you feel anything weird in your balls? In your Willy?" He was kidding, or course, but Kyle's eyes fixed on him with a snarky frown.

I could see a shy smile surface, and I could hear an embarrassed chuckle as he ducked his head again. "Nah … just you down there playing with me. Crap! Doesn't seem fair. It's a shame you're not my type. Nothing hurt. Honest."

Thoreau was nodding his head affirmatively, still hiding laughter as he stripped off the gloves and used both hands to palpate the stump. He searched along the line of staples very carefully, and then stopped. "Ah … there we are. You have a loose staple. Never closed completely. Imbedded in the skin. That's what the washcloth caught on. Maybe it popped loose when you ran the marathon on the parallel bars yesterday … oh yeah … Hazel told me. Do you want me to take it out?"

He rose from the bed just as Brandy returned from her errand to the supply room with two white packages.

Ed opened a drawer in the med cabinet and extracted the small tool with curved nippers. He pulled on fresh gloves. "Give me a hand with this, will ya? I found a loose staple. I'm sure Kent will be happy to not have to bend over his brother's smelly butt to untangle him again." He was laughing as he said it.

He gestured to Kyle who sat with his mouth hanging open. Across from him, I was standing there doing the same thing.

"Roll over on your belly, can you?"

Kyle complied without any trouble. He folded his arms and planted his chin on clasped hands.

One deft move and it was done. Ed held up the little tool in which was grasped a tiny surgical staple reminiscent of a dead bug. "Gotcha!" He said. "See? You're not even bleeding. No more gauze bandages for you. Time for a stump sock and a new shrinker. This one has suspenders."

I had seen these before, but Kyle glared at the man through squinted eyes beneath brows like the overhang of a cliff above water. He was a diagnostician, a nephrologist, a researcher. "Suspenders?"

Thoreau was opening the packages Brandy had brought from the supply room. "Here," he said. "Take a look."

The thing was made of skin-tone elasticized material, and when Kyle took it into his hands, I saw him inspect it inch by inch, pulling at the edges and examining the fit as it would be when placed over his stump. It had an adjustable strap that fit around his body and fastened in front with Velcro. Good for stabilization. This would secure his right hip and aid him in getting used to using his hip joint again. The stump sock that went with it was made of soft material that fit securely over his stump to aid in forming a cushion upon which he could place weight when he was ready to begin walking.

"Slide the stump sock on first," Thoreau said. "Be sure you lift it across the staples and then secure it as closely to the hip joint as you can within range of comfort."

Kyle attempted to do so, but he found that he was unable to lift his stump as he had once been able to lift the entire leg … with his toes pointed straight up into the air. The only motion he was able to attain was a few twitches and his stump lolling off to the side. "I… I can't" he whispered. "I can't make it do that. Now what?"

"No problem," Thoreau said. "Roll over and lay flat on your back." Kyle did so. "Now," Thoreau said, stiffen your left leg and raise it straight up in the air … as far as you can. Point your toes."

His healthy leg zipped quickly upward, toes pointed at the ceiling.

"Put it down." The leg went down.

"Now do it with the other one. Lift your leg and point your toes at the ceiling."

Kyle's stump rose reluctantly; wobbly at first, then poling upward a few inches off the surface of the bed.

"Bravo!" I said. I was echoed by three other voices.

"See? Your good side gave your bad side the idea how to do it right. You've got to practice doing that, okay?" Thoreau growled.

We turned and saw Hazel Braddock poke her head in the door, grinning from ear to ear. "Calloway," she said, "I thought I told you to put your pants on today …"

The rest of us were laughing, but Kyle was not amused. "We're having school here, woman, " he grumbled. "I'll thank you to not interrupt the class …"

She stepped inside the room and reclosed the door. She was wearing a sweater, jeans and high-top boots. "It's cold out there, and here you all are … loafing around in a patient's room." She paused for a moment, looking around. "Sure is a mess in here. Looks like somebody dynamited a Kotex factory. See what happens when I'm not around?

"Well, I gotta go. I stopped by to see how everyone is doing, and it looks okay to me. I'll see you Wednesday. Bye bye." Hazel was back out the door and gone.

Kyle Calloway sat up in bed and turned so that his leg dangled over the edge. Frowning, he eyed the empty doorway for only an instant. He pulled the stump sock over his staples and secured it. Ed Thoreau helped him ease into the shrinker, but told him to Velcro his own belt into place around his slender waist.

Thereafter, Kyle pulled his cut-off shorts back on, zipped and snapped them, and asked someone to get his damned sneaker so he could get going … he didn't have all day.

109


	27. Chapter 27

DARKENED WINGS

Chapter 27

"Shoulder to the Wheel"

"I'm too tall for this thing. I'm overbalancing. I'll fall."

"No you won't, but you can't run with it. Slow down. Take smaller steps, okay? You're not too tall, you're just impatient."

"You got that right. I'm also angry, disgusted and discouraged. This isn't working. I was never meant to use one of these gizmos. Every step I take I feel like I'm going to veer off to the right and slam into the wall."

"That's because your center of gravity has shifted. It used to be in the middle, and now it's all on the left, while your body wants to tilt to the right. Your new leg will change all that, but for now, you need to find your balance point, and you're going to discover that that's also shifted to the right. You've got to find a different center. Don't tell me you don't know what I'm talking about. As a seasoned doctor, and diagnostician, you just _know! _Did you ever have a set of toy soldiers when you were a kid?"

"Huh? Yeah …"

"Ever line them up in formation and then look at them, all straight and tall?"

"Yeah … so?"

"Ever break a leg off of one?"

"Uh … yeah … most of 'em. Why?"

"Come on Doc, don't play dumb. You know what I'm getting at. One-legged tin soldiers won't stand up, will they?"

"Nope. They fall over toward the side where the leg is missing. I get it."

"Then don't be so obtuse."

"I'm not! I'm not a toy soldier either. A toy soldier doesn't give a crap if he falls over. No paint off his nose. But I care. If I fall over, I can get hurt. That means I'll have to go back to the beginning in my therapy. This rattletrap of a walker feels like a piece of junk in my hands. It makes me nervous. In the wheelchair I'm secure. Even on crutches, I'm secure. With this thing, I'm worrying whether it will give out beneath my weight … and I'm not exactly a lightweight person. So I'm not secure. Two little wheels and two little skids. I either have to pick it up every step, or slide it ahead of me and hop forward into it. It rattles and squeaks and carries on … That's not reassuring. All floor surfaces aren't the same, and sometimes the skids catch on a spot where something got spilled … or there's surface inconsistency. One of these times it's going to dump me. I don't want to use it anymore. I don't trust it. Okay?"

"Doc …"

"No, I mean it. I don't like it, and when we get to P.T., it's history. I want my crutches back. I'm used to those, and if I lose my balance for a second, I know how to recover."

"It's hospital policy to use walkers during the first week of therapy."

"So okay. Let's just say I'm in my _second_ week of therapy. I did my first one somewhere else and then came here."

"You are the most stubborn man I ever met."

"Yup …"

"I'll check with Dr. Thoreau."

"Thanks Hazel."

"You're welcome."

She left him in the gym and went to attend to other duties. He found himself in the company of two physical therapists he didn't know. Both male. Youngish. All smiles and enthusiasm. He eyed them warily. He put on his best 'mad' face and spoke in his best growly voice.

"I brought your walker back," he said. "You can return it to the herd of them over there. I would like my damn crutches back, if you don't mind."

Their sunny faces did not change expression. "Good morning Dr. Calloway. I'm Ray and this is Pete. I'm really sorry, but we can't change out the walker unless we have authorization from Dr. Thoreau."

"Well, please call him. I'll wait."

"Okay, we'll call him, but not until after your therapy session. He's scheduled to be in surgery all morning anyway. Try to calm down and make the best of what you have at the moment. Things like this take time, as we're sure you're aware of by now. You're here this morning to strengthen your hip and get it ready to accept your prosthesis when it's ready. We'd like you to come over here and lie down on this platform. Please."

He would like to have started an argument; something to get his stagnant blood circulating. _But …_ these kids were too well trained and too disciplined to fall for his tactics. (Ed had probably warned them about him!) So he dropped the 'meanie' act and complied. He hobbled across to the platform Ray had indicated, turned himself around as the walker squeaked and rattled, and sat down very carefully on the edge.

The one called Pete stayed very close to his side, and he could feel a warm, strong hand resting lightly on his shoulder as he lowered himself to its surface and shoved the walker out of the way. "Lie down now," he said. "On your back. Flat out. Extend your leg upward as far as you can. Follow through with that same motion on your stump side. Stretch it out as though your leg is still there. Do them one at a time, and then both at once. Can you feel the muscles tightening?"

He nodded. *Yes!'*

Incredibly, he could feel faint pseudo-sensations from his missing crippled leg. However, the new perceptions were not of pain or discomfort, but of muscles being taxed again after long inactivity. He found himself locked in a moment of astonishment, and discovered that he was smiling. And sweating like a race horse. After that he found his rhythm and his body rocked with the effort of his movements.

_*Wow!*_

Beside him, both therapists were smiling also, mostly because of the drastic change in his facial expression. "Well," Ray said, "It's pretty obvious to me that you're not in pain. That's great."

"I'll second that," Pete echoed. "We'd like you to spend the next fifteen minutes doing that same exercise over and over. Don't try to push it to see how _many_ of those extensions you can do. Rest after each one and let your engine cool down, so-to-speak, before you do another one. We'll be over there at the next station with that man …" and he indicated someone Kyle couldn't see. "If you run into difficulty, holler and we'll be right here. Okay?"

He nodded, already into the next extension.

"When we come back, we'll show you the right way to sit up from the position you're in now."

He nodded impatiently. He already knew how to get his ass up from a prone position. Did they think he was six months old? He was already concentrating on his next movements and beginning to achieve a new sense of welcome liberation.

Kent Calloway sat on the reclining sofa in his 'brother's' apartment. There was a load of wash in the little dryer and he'd just popped a sheet of chocolate chip cookies into the oven.

He'd driven the streets of Lebanon in search of a super market where he could buy groceries. The parking lot of the first one was choked with cars and he passed it by. Then he'd stumbled upon the Etna General Store. Small enough to be friendly, large enough to include a large stock of … well … just about everything. He'd smiled at the small sign out front: "Etna General Store – Warm Beer, Lousy Food, Bad Attitudes."

He bought a big bag of coffee beans first. Fresh-ground coffee for when Kyle came home. Then he roamed the aisles; looking. He bought a pound of butter from the dairy case, some fresh chicken in a big bubble-pak, two frozen pizzas and two packs of hot dogs. (On a whim he also chose a package of cheater's chocolate chip cookies … just slice 'em and put 'em on a cookie sheet and burn the daylights out of 'em!) He added a large bag of potato chips to the grocery cart, along with a small bag of real potatoes and a bag of onions. He saw jars of cheese dip and ranch dip on the shelf and added those too; a bottle of catsup, a small jar of mustard, a box of breakfast cereal, a bag of wide noodles, a gallon of milk, and a carton of half'n'half. He walked around, just perusing, and finally picked up a loaf of whole wheat bread, a package of hot dog rolls, a box of filled donuts and a vacuum-sealed tin of cashews.

As Rachael Ray might say: "Yummo!"

He took everything to the front where he was second in line to check out. A pleasant middle-aged man with salt'n' pepper hair and a very large mustache waited on him with a smile, and made colorful comments about the snowy weather in his distinctive New England twang. When Kent answered politely, the storekeeper looked at him with curiosity. "Yer not from around here, are yuh?"

To which Kent smiled and answered truthfully: "Nope … Jersey." He paid cash for the groceries.

"A-yup. Thought so … have a nice day."

"Thank you … you too."

He went back to Kyle's place and put the groceries away. There was just enough room in the freezer of the small fridge to hold the chicken and both pizzas and the loaf of bread … and the hot dogs, if he stood them on end and shoved. The hot dog buns had to be left up top. He was glad he hadn't bought anything else that needed freezing. And he was thankful that he'd found the damned freezer to be empty.

Surprisingly, when he put away the milk, half'n'half, and the catsup and mustard and a few other things, he discovered a six-pak of Coors Light tucked away at the back of the bottom shelf. He smiled. A piece of the past sitting there staring at him …

For now he could smell the heavenly aroma of cookies in the oven, and he got off the couch to retrieve them. Kyle and the people who entered and exited his room this evening would enjoy them.

He looked at his watch.

It was almost 3:00 p.m. He would probably be back from his afternoon therapy session by now. Kent wondered if Kyle had succeeded in cajoling Ed Thoreau into allowing him to return to the use of his crutches. He was leery of the rickety aluminum walker, and Kent couldn't blame him. It hadn't, after all, been manufactured for use by the 'Jolly Green Giant' or "Shrek", or "Baby Huey", or "Humphrey Pennyworth" …

When Kent returned to DHMC and walked into his friend's room, Kyle was sitting in the visitors' chair with his glasses resting low on his nose and a case file in his hands. By his side, leaning against the wall, was the pair of fancy crutches he'd left in the car on the night he'd been admitted.

Kent set the plastic Ziploc bag of cookies on the rolling table and the laundry basket of neatly folded clothing on the small bed. The walker was nowhere in sight.

"I see you won your case," he said. "Where did you leave Ed's body when you changed the scrip?"

Kyle looked up over the tops of his glasses, sighed, and took them off. Placed them atop the case file which now laid on what was left of his lap. "No contest, I think," he said casually, "the poor devil finally gave me permission to go back on the crutches so I'd shut the hell up. Somebody hid them in the doctors' locker room. Guess who!

"It was fun though, listening to him try to defend his position on why my use of a walker was a good thing, and watching him squirm while I recited a whole laundry list of reasons why it _wasn't._ You should have been there. You'd have enjoyed it."

Kent simply shook his head in mute admiration while their eyes bored into each other's. He stood looking down. His eyebrows were raised, his lips pursed. "What's that in your lap?"

Kyle grinned evilly. "I got a case. It's an old case, but Ed wanted to see how fast I could crack it." He wobbled his head in a subtle side-to-side motion that could only indicate smugness. "He said if I could diagnose this one, he would not only authorize me to have my staples removed, but I could be discharged after one week and a couple of days, instead of two. I gave him the DDX in ten minutes.

"Also, I found out about my new prosthesis … but right now I'm sworn to secrecy, even from you. Sorry."

Kent stood back and gave his friend his best "Jeff-Dunham-Peanut-the-Puppet" stare.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously! So! I smell chocolate chip cookies. Are you sharing them?"

"I'll bring 'em over," Kent said. "Sit still."

"I was going to." He stared after the younger man as he strode across the room and grabbed the plastic bag.

"Here ya go," Kent said.

"Thanks, little brother." Kyle had four cookies in his hand, which he brought quickly to his mouth and gobbled a huge mouthful. "Mmmfff … deliffish-ic."

Finally he was able to speak more clearly. "Guess what … Hazel came through! I'm gonna get shaven and shorn in about fifteen minutes. No more billy-goats-gruff. Maybe my secret identity will come out of hiding. Better grab one of my crutches and keep it ready to beat back the monster, huh?" He took another bite of cookie and stared at Kent with a wicked gleam in his eyes.

Kent snickered. "I'll give that idea all the attention it deserves."

Kyle was grinning again. "Y'know, unless something really stupid happens, I think I might actually walk again. What do ya think of them apples?"

"I love apples!" Kent replied, smiling.

114


	28. Chapter 28

DARKENED WINGS

Chapter 28

"The First Prosthesis"

"OW! DAMMIT, THAT HURTS!"

"SORRY, DR. CALLOWAY."

I'M STANDING ON ONE LEG, (THE ONLY ONE I'VE GOT AT THE MOMENT,) LEANING ON MY ELBOWS OVER A TALL GURNEY THAT'S PUSHED INTO A CORNER AGAINST THE WALL. MY 'BROTHER' SITS ACROSS THE ROOM OOGLING A PRETTY FIRST-YEAR MED STUDENT WHO HAS PINCERS IN HER HOT LITTLE HANDS AND IS REMOVING MY STAPLES WITH AN EAGER ENTHUSIASM THAT SCARES THE LIVING CRAP OUT OF ME. THERE'S AN INTERN WATCHING HER, BUT HE MAKES NO MOVE TO GRAB THE DAMN THINGS OUT OF HER FINGERS AND DO IT RIGHT. TWICE SHE'S NIPPED BITS OF SKIN ALONG WITH THE STAPLES WHILE I COWER AND CRINGE LIKE A CALF BENEATH A BRANDING IRON. OF COURSE I KNOW THESE YOUNG ONES HAVE TO LEARN … BUT _HOLY SHIT_!

MY STUMP IS HEALING, AND NORMAL SENSATIONS ARE RETURNING TO IT A LITTLE MORE EACH DAY. STILL, THIS OPERATION IS CRINGEWORTHY AND I CAN'T HELP CLENCHING MY GLUTEUS MAXIMUS LIKE A HOUND THAT'S EXPECTING TO GET BOOTED. I'VE REMOVED MY CUTOFFS, AND HERE I STAND IN MY UNDERWEAR. CAN'T HELP WONDERING IF SHE'S OOGLING _MY _ASS THE WAY KENT IS OOGLING HERS!

AT LAST SHE STRAIGHTENS AND TURNS TO BEAM AT ME AS THOUGH WE'VE JUST ESCAPED TOGETHER FROM A BURNING BUILDING. "ARE YOU FINALLY FINISHED TORTURING ME, WOMAN?" I DEMAND, AND HER SMILE VANISHES.

"OH DR. CALLOWAY I'M SO SORRY IF I'VE HURT YOU. THIS IS THE FIRST TIME I'VE EVER DONE THIS BY MYSELF. BUT YOU'RE NOT BLEEDING, AND YOUR SKIN IS PINKING UP BEAUTIFULLY …" THE INTERN WAS PULLING MY STUMP SOCK BACK ON AND TRYING NOT TO LAUGH.

"OH! WELL! THAT EXPLAINS IT THEN. LET'S JUST HOPE THE TWO OF US DON'T MEET AGAIN UNTIL YOU GET PROMOTED TO HEAD SURGEON … PREFERABLY SOMEWHERE IN NORWAY. LET ME GET MY DAMN PANTS ON!"

SHE WAS STILL STARING AFTER US AS I GOT INTO MY PANTS, MADE A GRAB FOR THE WHEELCHAIR AND PLOPPED INTO IT, (NEW AMPUTEES ARE NOT ALLOWED CRUTCHES WHEN THEY MAY MIGHT HAVE TO WALK THIS FAR.) I BUZZED OUT THE DOOR AND DOWN THE HALLWAY, BACK TO THE SURGICAL WING.

KENT FOLLOWED BEHIND ME QUICKLY, LOOKING BACK ONCE , WATCHING HER WATCHING US. HE SAID, SARCASTICALLY: "Y'KNOW, I DON'T THINK YOU DID MUCH FOR HER SELF ESTEEM …"

"SHE DIDN'T DO A HELL OF A LOT FOR MINE EITHER!" I GROWLED.

We got back to our room just in time for lunch. I grabbed my crutches and made a quick trip to the head. I not only had to whizz, but I couldn't wait to see what my stump looked like without a long line of black staples. I took care of the first chore and then turned to the second.

I looked into the full-length mirror beside the shower and stared, momentarily startled, at my newly altered reflection. Once again I was aware that the man from my past had returned. My hair was a lot shorter, thanks to the beautician who visited me. Gone was the wavy style that the longer locks had afforded. Yesterday when I'd first looked at myself, I'd experienced a cold chill down my spine. No more cool Van-Dork beard; no more sculpted mustache. Just the short scruff that had graced this ugly mug for almost fifteen years. I remembered when 'he' told me I'd look good unshaven … and just because it was him, I'd let it grow out that way. Now … here was that angry image back again.

Not cool and not welcome! I longed to be home. Soon. Even though the further things went, the more exception I would take with that longing …

So I held onto one of the sissy bars while I twisted to look down at the other area of interest. I had to pull the edge of the cutoffs out of the way, and thankfully I did not have the shrinker back on yet. I pulled off the sock and studied the line of tiny scars, now bared, and as pink as a baby's bottom. They had swelled some. But all in all, the area looked healthy and in full healing mode. I could soon be fitted with a temporary leg and find out how well I would do in learning to maneuver it.

When I stepped back into the room and went over to sit on the edge of my bed, lunch was already there on the rolling table. Kent looked me expectantly. "So what do you think? Will it do?" He had known immediately the real reason I'd hurried to the John.

I shrugged, trying to remain nonchalant, but he wasn't fooled. "I think it might do in a pinch. There's not much left to work with, but if anybody can get me up and running, it's these guys."

"I'm really glad you're okay with it. You are, aren't you?"

"I have to be, don't I? It's a good thing to take a chance like this, I guess … especially if all you have is the one."

We ate our lunch in silence.

Hazel came bouncing around the corner at one o'clock.

"Hey Doc …"

"Ummmh … ?"

"No therapy this afternoon. They're bringing your leg."

"That is not news."

"Yeah … but guess what … I need to look at your staples; or rather, where your staples _were …_ and if I find one little thing wrong …"

"Yeah, I know. You're going to check the spot where the med student gave me the laceration." I felt myself getting pissed off, and she had done nothing to deserve it. I needed to knock off the crap. "Sorry Hazel … I'm just getting edgy. I want all this stuff to be over and done with, but I know it's gonna take months, if not years …"

She nodded sympathetically. "I know how you feel, Doc. I really do. I've worked with a lot of new amputees, and they all feel the same way you do. Y'see, I have pretty much seniority around here and I get to pick and choose if there's one I want to work with. Ed Thoreau told me about you when he first met you, and I decided right away, when you were ready for the procedure, you were going to be my patient. Actually, the both of you are about the most interesting clients I've ever had: you and L'il Doc here ..."

Across the room, Kent beamed like a little kid at his fifth birthday party.

"This isn't an easy process, Kyle. It's trial-and-error all the way. We'll do fitting after fitting, because it has to be exactly right. Your stump and the prosthesis have to come together precisely, or your stump will get sore, you could get an infection, or an uneven spot will develop and another adjustment will have to be made to the mold. Sometimes you'll think it'll never end. This prosthesis is unique, but still, it's an endless pain-in-the-you-know-what …

"But you'll be glad you stuck with it. I promise. Besides, you don't strike me as a quitter. It's just not written into your DNA."

She paused and just stood there watching me. Kent got up and strolled over to stand beside her. I sighed and obediently rolled over onto my stomach while they both checked the pitted titty pink area where my staples had been. The sensations there were sketchy still, but returning normally. I felt the coolness of her fingers as she examined the skin thoroughly. "You were worked on by a med student, huh?"

"Yeah." _Sarcasm … _ "How'd you know?"

"She really did butcher you. Little cut in the skin here. Almost missed it. Y'know, she probably stole your DNA to see if you would make an appropriate father for her intended child …"

"Oh, for crying out loud!"

Hazel grinned and continued to probe. I continued to enjoy the probing …

She pronounced me fit to try my very first prosthesis, and it was coming today. "You know, don't you, that you can put absolutely _no _weight on this leg today. It's lightweight, and won't support you; and your stump isn't healed near enough for you to try any shenanigans …"

I nodded mutely.

Sometimes this woman acts exactly like a high school cheerleader. Sometimes like a Nun with a ruler. Always cheerful or sympathetic, depending on the situation. She has the ability to gauge what's in a patient's head, and sometimes what's in his heart. She can bolster your courage when you're scared to death, and never fails to laugh at your stupid jokes or return smart remark for smart remark.

She reminds me of a female Kent … always there when needed, and at your side anyway when you don't. Although I seldom said anything to show my appreciation, it was always there, right behind my teeth in case I ever wanted to let it out.

There came a sudden sharp rap on the open door. All of us looked up.

Joe Garrett and Ed Thoreau walked in. Joe was carrying a plastic bag full of … whatever-the-hell … and Ed carried a flesh-colored, funny looking, heavy duty plastic leg over his shoulder like an Army rifle. I would have bet the thing weighed thirty pounds. It was a _l-o-n-g_ leg. All the musculature sculpted and well defined, except its toes, which were molded into one piece. It had a knee and ankle that were hinged almost like 'G. I. Joe's. I looked at it darkly.

"Wow! I'm gonna turn into an action figure."

"We certainly hope so," Joe said with a grin. "Are you ready to give this a try?"

"I guess. Whenever you are. What do I do first?"

"First," he said, "you peel down to your underwear."

"What? _Again?_"

"Uh huh. I take it you did another strip-tease before this one today …" He was grinning evilly.

He opened his plastic bag and began digging through the contents. I slipped out of my shorts while Ed took the leg off his shoulder, adjusted something on the flexible knee and encircled its ankle with his fingers. Suddenly he hefted it across and thrust it toward me. I flinched out of the way as though expecting to be klunked on the head with a rock.

Ed laughed. "Here. Take it."

I reached out, thinking the thing weighed a ton. I grasped it with both hands and discovered that its total weight couldn't have been more than two or three pounds. I'd seen lots of prosthetics, but never one like this. "What the hell?" I sat and examined the leg from every aspect. "This thing is hollow!" It had a depression in the top into which I would insert my stump with the proper padding.

Joe had a baby soft stump sock in his hands, and was stretching it out where it had been folded into the package. "On your back," he said. "This is where the bear shit in the buckwheat. You just had your staples removed, right? Can you lift your stump up here?"

Yes I had, and of course I could. That was what my therapy sessions had been for. I poked the thing toward him. He placed the palm of his hand beneath it and I felt a whisper of something being rubbed across the bottom of the stump. "What _is _that?"

"Powder," Joe said. "It's especially made for this. Prevents chafing." Gently he covered the entire stump with the powder. He then stretched out the thick, padded sock and eased it over the stump. "Feel okay? Doesn't hurt?"

"Doesn't hurt," I repeated back to him. Off to the side I could see Hazel and Kent standing right next to each other, arms folded, watching intently.

Ed Thoreau was approaching from the opposite side. He was carrying a bulky belt-like gizmo that I immediately recognized as an AK suspension belt. The bottom half encircled my stump and the top of the artificial limb. The top half encircled my waist like a belt and held the leg in place.

They lowered my bed to its lowest setting. They eased my stump into the depression at the top of the 'G.I. Joe' leg, maneuvering it until it faced front. They buckled the belt at my waist and assisted me to stand. The tiny amount of weight I was able to place on my stump hurt like hell, but they adjusted and adjusted until it was nominally comfortable.

Someone handed me my crutches and I searched for a fulcrum. _Feet on the floor!_ Two _FEET_!

For a moment I balanced drunkenly, then got my bearings. I took a step, thrusting forward with my stump and the feather-lite leg; positioning the crutches. Beneath me the prosthetic leg bent the way it was supposed to at knee and ankle. I hitched my hip and thrust forward again. Instinct. The 'G.I. Joe' leg moved forward too. I remembered having to learn to walk with crutches this same way after the infarction, knowing I had no thigh muscles to maneuver with. I was still too weak to lift the thing off the floor completely, but the memory came back in a rush, and I knew how to do it. It would take hours of painful practice. I balanced my weight on the crutches and took another step.

Step-crutches, step-crutches, step …

Twenty seconds upright and I was exhausted and the pain was incredible. Wincing and panting and grunting, I asked to be taken back to the bed.

Grinning like jackals, Ed and Joe guided me back and I collapsed downward. Gently they removed the leg and loosened the suspension belt and investigated my stump. There was a small drop of blood on the sock from the cut in the row of staples.

But the damage was infintesimal and I had done it! They gathered around, and everyone wanted to touch me. So I let them. I was sweating like a race horse, and I felt like I had just run the Kentucky Derby. Next, the Preakness, and then the Belmont.

I spied Hazel and Kent hugging each other …

That night I took my meds and the pain went away again.

Kent, I think, lowered my bed to horizontal, and I slept the sleep of the dead. Never even noticed when the troops took down the tents, broke camp and slipped away into the night.

_Thank you god, even if I don't believe in you …_

119


	29. Chapter 29

DARKENED WINGS

Chapter 29

"Stumble"

WE HAD TO WAKE HIM THIS MORNING SO HE COULD EAT HIS BREAKFAST.

WHEN BRANDY CAME IN AT THE CRACK OF DAWN TO TAKE HIM FOR A SHOWER, I ASKED HER TO PLEASE LET HIM SLEEP. IT WAS THE FIRST REALLY DECENT NIGHT'S SLEEP HE'D HAD SINCE HIS SURGERY. SHE ACCEDED WITH A SMILE AND LEFT AGAIN.

OUR LITTLE HISPANIC LADY WAS BACK, MUCH TO MY DELIGHT. SHE AND HER HELPER CARRIED THE BREAKFAST TRAYS IN AND PLACED THEM VERY SILENTLY ON THE ROLLING TABLE. "I AM SO SORRY TO BE WAKING HEEM," SHE EXCLAIMED, LOOKING DOWN AT MY FRIEND LIKE A DOTING GRANDMOTHER. HER NAME, SHE'D FINALLY TOLD ME, WAS 'PALOMA', AND HER COMPANION, 'ALEX'. IT WAS NICE TO FINALLY KNOW.

I TOLD HER TO GO AHEAD; SPEAK TO HIM IN A NORMAL TONE OF VOICE AND ALLOW HIM TO AWAKEN SLOWLY. HE WAS EASILY STARTLED IF ANYONE SHOUTED. SO THAT'S HOW SHE DID IT. I WATCHED HER AS SHE LEANED NEAR HIS BED AND SAID: "WAKE UP SENOR DOC. YOUR BREAKFAST IS HERE. SENOR DOC? WAKE UP PLEASE …"

HE ROLLED OVER GRACEFULLY ONTO HIS LEFT SIDE AND BLINKED UP AT HER WITH AN APPEALING BLUE-EYED SQUINT. "UNNNGH … GOOD MORNING PALOMA. HI ALEX … BREAKFAST ALREADY? WOW!"

"GOOD MORNING. YOU ARE WELL TODAY? SI?"

"I AM WELL TODAY … SI SENORITA, SENOR. GRACIAS."

After they left, he slithered around and perched on the edge of the bed. "I slept like a dead log in the forest that doesn't make any noise if you're not there to hear it."

"Thaaat's … interesting," I told him. I moved over to stand at his side and placed my hand on his forearm. "How the devil did you find out Paloma's name? And Alex's?"

He looked at me like I was seriously deficient in the brain compartment. "Duh … I've been here three years. I know _everybody's _name. I was pulling your leg when I pretended I didn't know theirs …"

"Well, you didn't know the names of the kids in therapy," I shot back.

He sighed. " _Almost _everybody's name!"

"That's what I thought. Anyway, nice going yesterday. You kind of put a lump in my throat."

He looked up, allowing a slight crease of 'snark' to invade a corner of his mouth. "I noticed. You weren't the only one. It was enough to make me want to cry. Almost."

I scowled. "Huh?"

"Oh … you and Hazel … you're such _girls_!"

I handed him his crutches and he slid off the bed, leaning between them gracefully. It was heartening to note that he had not lost any of his innate grace or dexterity; leg or no leg. "Get in there and do whatever it is you do, while I take our breakfast out from under wraps. Hurry up before it's cold …"

He cackled annoyingly and lumbered off, closing the bathroom door behind him. I took the covers off the food and the blended aromas wafted upward, tantalizing my taste buds. French toast with melted butter and maple syrup. One big sausage patty each. Dessert dishes containing three pear halves. Hot buttered muffins and strawberry jelly. Steaming hot coffee in a tall carafe. (They never brought us single cups anymore. We got two cups each in a carafe to keep it piping hot.)

He was back in five minutes or so, dressed in the usual cut-off shorts, clean stump sock and a "WHO" tee-shirt that had seen better days. He'd combed his hair with a washrag, or so it seemed. It was standing up on end like new-mown hay … and suddenly I was seeing the man from five-plus years ago. It gave me a few 'deer-in-the-headlights' moments, and I hoped he hadn't noticed.

He had. "I have the same reaction whenever I look at myself in the mirror." He crunched his face in chagrin as he studied me. "The before-face might be back temporarily, but I'm damned if I'll let the bastard part come back too. Promise."

I shrugged, all of a sudden feeling okay with it. "Y'know … it's all right. Really. That was the side of you I was drawn to as best-friend material, so don't put your alter ego down too much. Which is to say, I like this side of you even better, and it might be kinda fun to watch as you keep blending them together. I see the new guy emerging from time to time … and I think I could learn to … _really _… like him …"

His mouth gaped open around a bite of muffin.

"Shut up and eat your breakfast," I said.

It got quiet in there for a while, but I could almost _feel _the smirk.

As soon as the breakfast trays were carted away he opened the drawer of his bedside stand and lifted out the case file I'd seen him perusing the day before. He stood both his pillows against the head of the bed and squirmed back against them. He took out his reading glasses and perched them on his nose and then opened the file.

He looked over at me a few times, as if making sure I was still there; allowed himself a half smile and disappeared back into the contents of the folder. I noticed that from time to time his hand ghosted down to caress his stump, and I wondered for the hundredth time if it might be hurting him. I didn't say anything then, as the reexamination of the old puzzle took over his concentration and he became immersed in it.

But I should have.

I interrupted him just once to ask where he received his mail, and whether he would like me to pick it up. I was experiencing a little bit of cabin fever, I think. I needed to move. Either that, or climb the walls.

"Kitchen," he said. "On a nail inside the cupboard by the fridge. Box number is one-twenty. Do you even know where the post office is?"

"Yeah. I stopped there on my way into town last week to ask directions."

"Okay. The lady behind the counter is Maggie. Tell her I said hello." That quickly, his nose was back in the file, and the fingers of his right hand were back on his stump. My mind was on the fresh air and the simple pleasure of freedom, however temporary.

I still didn't mention it.

A new guy came to take him to P.T. as he was scribbling something down in a margin with a pencil. He closed the file and slipped it back into the drawer. He grabbed his crutches and transferred from his bed to the wheelchair with no problem. They were off and out the door before I could get into my coat and grab my keys.

It occurred to me that it seemed odd that he had not, up to now, expressed any sense of restlessness, and no desire to get out of here and go home. I had not known him to be this patient about anything since we'd known each other. I wondered why. Even this newer, nicer person must have looked out the windows at the bright winter landscape and felt the longing for a taste of it.

I fired up the VW and headed over to Etna. (I should soon stop for gas!) I pulled up in front of Kyle's place with two wheels on the sidewalk as usual. Went inside and into the kitchen to the cupboard where he said the key was hanging. And it was. He'd screwed a cup hook into the wood near the bottom of the door, and the key was there. I hadn't seen it when I was putting the groceries away yesterday.

It seems I'm not picking up on details lately_. _

A key chain in the shape of a small 'tarnished-around-the-edges' gold heart was imbedded with a fake pearl, the June birthstone. It was also engraved with the initials: "G. H." I took it down and frowned at it. He never, in a million years, would have had something like this made for himself. Then, in my next breath, I had to smile. My thoughts stopped on the name of the only person who would have given him this. Her name was Allison.

I remembered having a conversation with her one time. It was about fidelity. I said: _"I met someone once. Made me feel funny. Good. And I didn't want to let that feeling go."_ She had no clue who I was talking about, and we never discussed it again. I wondered where she was now.

The post office was just down the road, and I parked out front. It was an attractive building, painted slate blue with white trim. I walked up the steps and opened the door. A small bell tinkled merrily nearby, and I turned around to look up. It was attached to a spring that made the bell ring each time the door opened.

I hadn't even noticed it the first time through … too hell-bent on my mission. Now I was wondering where my mind had been for the past week or so …

Along the far wall was a bank of individual boxes that opened with keys just like the one in my pocket. Judging from the look of them, they'd been here since at least the turn of the last century. They were glass and brass, trimmed with 'Gay Nineties' black, white and gold paint. Admiring them, I walked down along the rows, searching for number one-twenty. There it was; third row down, about a quarter of the way toward the far wall.

His box was crammed full of everything from ads to flyers to monthly bills to small catalogs to a couple of local newspapers. I began pulling them all out, scraping and tearing a few on the metal edges of the box and wondering how to manage them without scattering everything across the floor.

The solution to that dilemma appeared when I got to the final piece in the box. As I looked into it from my side, a pair of bright green eyes looked laughingly back from the opposite side.

Must be Maggie.

I grabbed the bundle of unruly papers inside my coat, against my body, and scurried around to the counter. I dumped everything on the surface and the pile spilled outward like flood waters over a sea wall.

The lady was waiting curiously. She saw the key chain with the pearl and tilted her head. " Ahhh … you must be the messenger gathering up Kyle Calloway's wayward mail. He hasn't been here for a month or more. Are you 'G. H.'? And is he okay? I knew his bad leg had put him on crutches, but he always came in the back way and shot the breeze awhile when he picked up his mail."

"You're Maggie," I said. "And no, I'm not 'G. H.' Maybe it's an old girlfriend." (Distract!) "He told me about you and asked me to say hello. I'm Kent, his younger brother. He's in the hospital … DHMC, and he's just had his leg amputated."

Her green eyes widened. "Ooooh … no. I'm so sorry. Will he be all right?"

"Please don't be sorry," I said. "It's the best thing he could have done. He's not in pain anymore … at least not that much. And it'll diminish more as time passes. He's going to be fitted for an artificial limb, and after that the crutches will soon be gone. Then a cane, and who knows, maybe later on he can throw that away too."

"I'm happy to hear you say that. He's such a sweet guy … and handsome too." (She was at least old enough to be his mother.)

_Sweet guy? _ The man I knew could never be called 'sweet'. Even after his partial makeover.

Maggie reached beneath the counter and pulled out a plastic grocery bag. She began filling it with all the mail and junk mail I'd yanked from box one-twenty.

I thanked her profusely and took my leave before she could regale me with "Kyle" stories ...

Before I headed back to the hospital, I drove around on a small tour of the Lebanon-Hanover-Etna area countryside. The region was sparsely populated this far out. Small farms abounded and some of the fields had cows tromping around, pawing for grass that wasn't buried beneath a foot of snow. The creatures looked up curiously as I drove by, and then returned to their business. Every house I saw along the way had tall shafts of pale chimney smoke curling into the air like ghostly gray wraiths. I had always dreamed of living in a place just like these …

After a time I began to wonder how P.T. was going.

I circled around and drove back to the hospital. Parked, went in, and walked back to his room.

… and ran into chaos.

He was in his bed, lying flat, the sheet pulled to his waist. I tossed his mail on my bed and slipped out of my coat. Ed Thoreau was there, and Hazel, and the two young physical therapists I didn't know.

I hurried over and insinuated myself as close to him as I could get. He had been facing the other way, but turned his head toward me when he sensed movement. He looked angry, disgusted and pained. There was a long, dark bruise running along the entire right side of his face, and his right eye was swollen and darkening across his eyebrow. His cheek was swollen also, and his jaw ran the gamut of blues and reds and purples. His therapists must have just brought him back to his room.

"Kyle? What happened?"

Hazel approached with an ice bag and placed it against the extensive area of bruises. Ed Thoreau was doing the same with Kyle's swollen right wrist. He had an elastic bandage in his hand, ready to unroll. "Let us answer your questions, Kent. Okay? It hurts him to talk right now." Hazel placed her hand on my arm and I nodded agreement.

"He passed out in P.T. Fell against one of the stationary bike bases while he was working with his 'G.I. Joe leg', as he calls it. No warning. I was right beside him and Pete was at his opposite side. He went down like a ton of bricks, twisted away from us, and landed on his bad side." The speaker was the young physical therapist who looked like he was ready to cry. "We had to pry the leg off him …"

Thoreau said: "It wasn't your fault, Ray. Sometimes it just happens." Ed was talking to us both. "The X-Rays have shown that his wrist isn't broken, but it's going to be sore for a couple of weeks. His face makes him look like he was in a bar fight and lost, but the bruises should clear up okay. The skin wasn't broken anywhere. His stump seemed a little too warm, so we've treated the little cut there with Terrasil antiseptic and bandaged it lightly. Hazel and Brandy will keep a close watch to make sure it doesn't go septic.

"Kent, if you don't mind, and since you've known him longest …" (and his eyes twinkled when he said this) … "keep a close watch on his movements … and I know you're listening with both ears, Big Guy … so don't give your brother a hard time. Kent, don't let him get away with _anything!"_

"Part of this is my fault," I interjected as I looked down at my 'brother's' comically wounded face. "I saw him rubbing at his stump this morning, the same way he used to rub at the scar. I assumed he was just doing it out of habit. It occurred to me that he might have been hurting, but I didn't say anything. Sometimes he tells me I 'baby' him too much. Well guess what, 'bro' … if you thought I babied you before, you aint seen nothin' yet!"

Below us there came a sound like a bloodhound whose tail had been stepped on. "I gon' kik oo inna go-adds, Ken …"

I leaned away from him and laughed out loud.

"What did he say?" Inquired Hazel.

I looked around, including everyone there. "He _said … _'I'm gonna kick you in the gonads, _Kent'. _Can't get much clearer than that, unless he could move his mouth when he talked."

"Uk Oo!" … and nobody had to guess what that meant.

He was settling down a little; burrowing deeper into the pillow and under the bed covers. Hazel took the time to pull the sheet up and then unfold the light blanket at the foot of his bed and cover him to the shoulders. His eyes told her: "Thank you …" and she nodded, "You're welcome …"

By the time they all filed out, he was sleeping lightly. It was 5:00 p.m. and the supper carts and med wagons were rumbling out of the elevator. I went out there to meet them and ask them to pass us by, and the reasons why. They were sympathetic. They understood, and they went past our doorway without stopping. I could get us something from the cafeteria later. Pablum, maybe … and I smiled to myself.

I paused to close the door and turn the lights to their lowest setting. I pulled the visitors' chair up to his side as I had done when he was first admitted, and prepared to keep a vigil for the rest of the night if necessary. I eased down into the chair and stared at his god-awful face.

He opened his eyes and looked at me reproachfully.

"You weren't asleep," I said.

He rolled his head slowly from side to side. "Uh-uh …"

"What happened in P.T.?"

He shrugged and then winced. "Ohn-oh …"

I paused a moment, interpreting. "You don't know?"

"Uh-uh."

"You mean you actually fainted … just like that?"

"Uh-huh."

"There has to be some explanation, you know. This kind of thing doesn't happen without a reason. Were you in pain that you couldn't handle? Do you want me to ask for some stronger meds than the ones you've been taking?"

"Uh-uh. Jus' … sore."

"I bet you are."

"Haw … haw."

"Well, if we keep jabbering, you're just going to have a headache on top of everything else. Let's wait 'til tomorrow. Maybe you won't be as uncomfortable."

"UH-UH …"

His voice was louder. Insistent. All he had.

I studied his face closely. "What is it?"

He lifted his right hand and held it across his body toward me. For the first time I saw that it was wrapped securely with the elastic bandage. I also saw that his fingers looked like sausages. "Too tight, huh?"

"Unhhh …"

I smiled at the relieved grunt. I removed the clips and unrolled the bandage slowly, listening to his huge sigh of relief. I rewrapped it in a looser configuration. I probably shouldn't have done it, but … what the hell …

"Ahhhhhhh …"

After that, he slept.

I tiptoed across the room, threw the plastic bag and my coat onto the floor, and crashed.

126


	30. Chapter 30

DARKENED WINGS

Chapter 30

"The Hard Way"

I WOKE UP ABRUPTLY AT 2:00 A.M. IN PAIN. IN SO MUCH PAIN THAT IT WAS AWESOME. BUT IN PLACES WHERE I WAS NOT ACCUSTOMED TO PAIN.

THE RIGHT SIDE OF MY FACE, FROM JAW TO TEMPLE, RADIATED WITH THE BRAND OF HELLFIRE I'D KNOWN BEFORE WHEN MY FRIEND VICODIN LET ME SLOG THRU LIFE AS IT TORTURED MY MIND.

THIS FIRE ROSE FROM DEEP WITHIN MY PRIMAL LAYER. FROM A DIFFRERENT CENTRE. IT SCORCHED MY VISION, BOILED MY BLOOD AND CLAWED ITS WAY INTO MY HEAD, LEAVING ME BREATHLESS AND GASPING.

TO A LESSER DEGREE, BUT NO LESS GRATING, MY HAND LAY SWOLLEN AND ACHING WITH A LIFE OF ITS OWN. I HELD IT UP TO THE DIM LIGHT OF THE ROOM, AND ITS CONTOURS WERE STARTLING. IT FELT TIGHT AND PULSATING AND MY FINGERS, COLD AS ICE.

A HEADACHE OF MONSTROUS PROPORTIONS WAS TAKING SHAPE ABOVE THE DAMAGED SIDE. HAD THERE BEEN AN OLYMPIC EVENT FOR HEADACHES, THIS ONE WOULD HAVE TAKEN THE GOLD, THE SILVER AND THE BRONZE.

WITH EFFORT I ROLLED OVER ONTO MY LEFT SIDE, SEEKING TO EASE IT, BUT THE STRUGGLE ONLY SAPPED MY ENERGY AND MADE THE PRESSURE WORSE. I DID NOT DARE MAKE A SOUND FOR FEAR OF WAKING KENT, SNORING LIKE A SAW MILL IN AN AMPITHEATER. BUT I HAD NO DOMINION OVER THE HAMMERING ACHE, AND I MUST HAVE GRUNTED MY DISTRESS.

I SAW THE SHADOW OF HIS HEAD RISE FROM HIS PILLOW AND TURN QUICKLY IN MY DIRECTION. SO MUCH FOR DISCRETION. HE SAW ME PROPPED CLUMSILY ON MY ARM WITH MY HEAD DOWN LOW, ATTEMPTING TO MELT INTO THE FABRIC OF THE MATTRESS.

THEN I HEARD THE NIAGARA FALLS ROARING OF HIS COVERS BEING THROWN BACK AND THE ELEPHANTINE THUNDER OF HIS FOOTSTEPS AS HE CROSSED THE ROOM IN HIS BARE FEET.

"Hey? What's up?" He was barely whispering, but to me it was like a monkey in a 55-gallon drum, beating on the inside with a croquet mallet.

"Owww …"

He touched the bandage stretched tight over my right hand, and it was all I could do not to scream. "That … kin'a hurt," I gasped.

He smiled his 'babying me' smile and reached a hand to cup my chin with a touch so gentle that it actually did not make for further waves of agony.

"I'm going out to tell Brandy to send you a couple of ice wraps and stronger meds," he whispered. "You can't lie here and suffer like this the rest of the night."

He stepped away from the bed: "Close your eyes!" and upped the lights a notch. His words, his exit from the room, and the silent closing of the door echoed in my head like a train wreck in a wind tunnel. I eased back onto my back and laid there seeing stars and rainbows when my head touched the pillow. I bent my elbow and elevated my hurt hand, but it didn't help.

After that I must have dozed, but my arm fell across my chest and the "Bellows of St. Mary's" woke me up fast.

Brandy roused me from another doze when she and Kent came clomping through the door like a herd of elephants. I reached for the pill cup she offered me, and finally found it, swaying in midair, after three failed attempts. I don't know what the meds were. I couldn't have cared less. The idea of my own voice echoing through my head when I spoke didn't sound like a good idea, so I blinked my thanks instead.

They eased ice wraps around my wrist and along the purple highway of my face. They sat beside me making fun of me in whispers that I couldn't hear anyway through the pounding in my frontal lobes. I made do by glaring at them one at a time, but after a minute that hurt too. So I stopped it and just laid still.

I felt Brandy's long thin fingers gently ghosting through my brambly hair, and surprisingly, it helped. The ice wraps seemed to be working a little also, and I was beginning to discern their voices without them being drowned out by Big Ben and Swiss train whistles.

My wrist thundered enthusiastically, and my fingers hurt all the way to my elbow. But the hand didn't feel so much like the Goodyear Blimp anymore, so I decided that the ice wraps were pretty good for what ailed me.

Shortly, the meds took affect too, and that's all I remembered.

I woke up again when the breakfast cart arrived and it was time to greet the day. My face had calmed down considerably, although I still wasn't sure how I'd handle breakfast. My hand was now rebandaged with a soft splint beneath it. I couldn't begin to form a fist. Even a very sad attempt to do so just hurt that much more.

Paloma and Alex smiled in sympathy when they saw me, but neither one made any smart remarks. They just told me they hoped I healed quickly. I thanked them by opening and closing my eyes.

Across from me, 'little brother' sat watching with a snarky smile on his face. "Makeup by Picasso!" He grinned. I would have made a snarky face back, but it would have hurt too much. I was a freaking mess.

My breakfast was Cream of Wheat, which I could handle fine, even left-handed. I simply drank the stuff, though I hated it with a purple passion. The inside of my mouth burned a little because my teeth had dug into my cheek and tongue when I hit the bike stand. But I was careful and kept everything to the left side as much as I could. They gave me milk instead of coffee. It had some chocolate in it and it was icy cold. I easily accepted the compromise.

They suggested that I skip P.T. today, but I said: "No! I goin'!" My words were coming out just a little easier. And a little easier to make others understand. I had no idea how much I could accomplish with the bunged-up wrist and the Chinese gongs still going off inside my head. Surely someone could find _something _to occupy me for the rest of the morning.

Turns out that Kent pushed my wheelchair down there today, and Hazel was waiting when we got there. I had not had my shower this morning, and I was still wearing my old "WHO" tee shirt. Much to my astonished embarrassment, Kent and Hazel assisted me to transfer from my wheelchair to an all-plastic model, designed for disabled patients to use in the shower. Well, I was disabled, they said, and I sure-as-hell needed a shower! This wasn't P.T. It was harassment.

Kent wheeled me to the huge community shower room, helped me undress, removed the bandages from my stump and examined it for any sign of infection; pronounced it okay. He pulled a plastic sleeve over the stump and shoved me under the needle spray of the hot shower. Grinning, he admonished me to do the 'close' work myself. He removed the bandage from my wrist and away I went. I heard the shower curtain snick closed behind me, and much to my relief it sounded just like a shower curtain closing; not a freight car door slamming shut. I got down to business and did as instructed. Not easy with only one hand, but I managed.

Three minutes later the curtain snicked open again and Kent pulled my crippled ass back to dry floor and handed me a towel. While he turned off the shower, I dried myself pretty well. He had to do my leg and foot. Also my back and butt. He helped me to stand, and then pulled me close enough to lean into him while he finished up. I made it worse by lifting both arms and leaning them over his shoulders and then staring into his face. He may have wanted to flatten me for that, but the subject didn't come up.

He unwrapped my arms and plopped my rear end down on the seat of the plastic chair. He helped me get dressed in running shorts and a black tee shirt with a picture of some skinny dude with a big nose holding a Human heart in his hands. He eased my sock and sneaker onto my very clean foot and stood back.

"'Ere … you get alla cloze?"

He removed a plastic grocery bag from the hook on the back of the plastic wheelchair. "I do your wash, remember?" He said as he crammed the dirty stuff into the bag. He spent a minute rewrapping a new elastic bandage on my hand and wrist. He didn't put the brace back. "How's it feel? Too tight? Too loose?"

"It' okay. Hey … I … sowwy if I em'arrass' you 'ack 'ere. Are 'ee okay?"

His return smile was a little melancholy. "We're always okay," he said softly.

After lunch I felt better. I still couldn't use the crutches because I simply couldn't stand any pressure on my hand. But my head had stopped ringing, and I was careful not to scrunch up my face and start the fire to racing again.

I went through the big stack of mail and threw most of it away. Light bill, phone bill, TV Dish, gas and water and internet bills, and my car and life insurance bills were all there. All coming due very soon. I had no idea how I would sign checks to pay them all.

Surprisingly, my 'brother' had the perfect solution. "I'll pay 'em," he said with a mysterious smile. "I'll go pay them and get gas in the car while I'm at it. If you think of anything you need, tell me now."

I frowned, and winced at the pain that still laced through my face as I did so. "Ow, damm. 'Aat hurt." I glared at him and resigned myself to the fact that I still had to be careful. "So how you gon' 'ay my 'ills for e'e? Idn't up to you … like you my dad. You alwedddy done enuff."

"Ace in the hole," he said. "I'll just go to your bank and take your bills along. I'll pay 'em all with cash. Money talks, you know."

"'_Eere_ you gonna get all 'at cash? Add uh to abou' four-hunnert dowwars." I managed to look at him with disapproval and still not move my facial muscles. It wasn't easy, and he laughed at my efforts.

He grabbed the visitors' chair for about the hundredth time and dragged it over to my bed. "I'll tell you a little secret, but it has to stay between us. Pinky swear!"

He looked so comical that I wanted to laugh. But that was out of the question. So, following his lead, I held out my pinky finger. He grinned and offered his. We linked and said together: "'Inky s'ear."

"Under the spare tire of the Volkswagen," he whispered, "is a blue laundry bag. When I left Jersey to hunt you up, I removed a hundred grand I had stashed in my safe deposit box and shut down all my accounts, which added even more. I have no idea how much is still in there, but I'm pretty sure there's enough to pay a couple of bills for a friend. And I haven't even touched the Twitter money."

My jaw dropped even as my head exploded with pain. "Oh. Gaw!"

I didn't go to P.T. in the afternoon. I hurt too bad. I just wanted to loaf.

But for the record: L'il ol' Kent Calloway took my bills, my dirty clothes, and a list of items I'd asked him to bring back. He climbed into his little rattletrap with the bag of paper money under the spare tire that must have weighed fifty pounds or more, and took off to pretend to be Santa Claus … about a week late.

130


	31. Chapter 31

DARKENED WINGS

Chapter 31

"Seminal Lion"

Hazel Braddock looked in the mirror in the nurses' locker room and frowned at the crow's feet that marked the corners of her dark eyes. The years were adding up and her life was nearly perfect, except for a small corner of her consciousness that still contained an empty spot that had been there for many years. Her work at Dartmouth-Hitchcock was always rewarding, and she took great pride in her many accomplishments. She had good friends among the staff, but there was something still empty and always nagging, never letting her alone for long. Others had families. Children and grandchildren.

Hazel did not.

Lately, since she'd met the Calloway Brothers, she had begun to think on it more. She was beginning to understand exactly what it was.

_Oh … damn!_

Hazel had been married twice and both times the unions had failed.

The first time, she was fresh from nursing school; eager and ready to take advantage of the Affirmative Action program in order to secure a position for herself in the nursing profession in Washington D. C. Her boss was a handsome white man who wined her and dined her and swept her off her feet. She was young and she fell for his suave line of seductive advances. She fell hopelessly in love with him, but two months into the marriage and already pregnant, she discovered that he'd had the same mistress for years and had no intention of remaining faithful in a union he'd considered a joke from the beginning. Heartbroken, she left him and filed for divorce. She moved to Boston and gave birth to a baby boy there. She knew nothing about babies or motherhood, except that which she had learned in nursing school, and had no job and no money. Reluctantly she gave up the child for adoption. A little boy deserved much more than anything she could offer him. She set about pulling her life together and looking for work.

The second time love found her, she was charge nurse in an amputee ward at a large V.A. Hospital in Wilkes Barre, Pennsylvania. She was in her early thirties. This man was older than she; settled and dependable. They dated for over a year before making a commitment. He was one of the foremen in the maintenance department, and a master electrician. They married and moved into the house he had lived in since he was a boy, and for a few years they were very happy. Then he began drinking. Hazel's salary was twice as much as his, and as a proud black man, he was increasingly bitter and resentful. One night when she came home from work, he accused her of stepping out on him. He beat her within an inch of her life. The next morning when he left for work, she packed up her few personal things and left. She drove north for hours, and the next day found herself in Grafton County, New Hampshire. She rented an apartment in Lebanon, consulted a lawyer and sent divorce papers by mail. She reverted to her maiden name and never saw or heard from him again.

Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center was expanding its medical and surgical facilities, and two new buildings were under construction on the grounds. Want ads listed a long line of openings for nurses; from recent graduates and LPNs to experienced, supervisory RNs. She applied, and was hired on the spot.

Now Hazel was forty eight years old and in charge of a department of 232 nurses, nursing practitioners LPNs and many others. She worked with and was respected by most of the 197 physicians and surgeons employed by the hospital. Everyone knew who she was, and were happy with the way she ran things and the easy manner in which she related to patients and staff alike.

Quickly now, Hazel forced herself out of her two-minute reverie and back into the world of her own choosing. She spread a thin coat of lipstick and patted down her very short silvered black hair. She wore new scrubs today; white trousers and a tunic with a pattern of tiny flowers. It was almost 7:00 a.m., time to begin rounds.

Erma and Lester and Violet and James. All amputees; all needing her undivided attention.

Last, Dr. Calloway. "Doc".

There was a special place in her heart for Kyle Calloway, but he must never know that, and she must never let him see. She allowed one last look in the mirror before moving out. She brushed a speck of nonexistent lint from the front of her tunic and walked out the door into the hallway. One floor up her day would begin.

He was resting in his bed when she walked into his room. Kent, his 'brother', was not there. Kyle was leaning against his stacked pillows with his eyes closed, but she knew he was not sleeping. He looked clownish with his bruised face and vacant expression. He had the day off from P.T. and he was not happy. His injured hand lay on another pillow that was propped against his belly, and she could see that he was keeping busy by extending and contracting his fingers. He didn't have much range of motion yet, but at least he was working on it.

"Hey Doc," she said as she walked in. "You look like you've been decorated by Salvador Dali. All colors of the rainbow and then some. How does it feel right now? Any improvement?"

"A 'ittle," he grumped. "You sound like … brudder," he slurred. "He said … 'Icasso'."

He wasn't in much of a mood to joke around. His mouth hurt, making it hard to talk. He had, however, showered and donned clean clothing. "Have you massaged your stump yet today? I see you have no sock on. You probably can't do much yet with your hand out of commission, so how about I give you some help with that?"

He nodded without much enthusiasm. "Yeah, okay." He struggled to sit up straight and slide across to give her easy access. He let his leg slide off the edge of the bed, which brought his stump into closer view. She took notice that he was very careful to not put pressure on his hand. He looked pissed off and totally dejected. His eyes were hollow, his lips chapped, and his skin looked stretched across his cheeks and chin. She thought he probably felt a lot worse than he was letting on. She must bring him lip balm and more meds. Maybe a cup of ice chips.

"You're feeling pretty sore this morning, aren't you? Do you need anything? Go ahead, spit it out. I have broad shoulders."

He looked up at her with angry sparks in his eyes and she could tell that a sarcastic remark was right on the tip of his tongue. Her mouth drew back in the hint of a smile, and he heaved a huge sigh; dropped his chin to his chest.

"Shit! Sowwey, Ha'el. I in a 'ad 'ood. Hand hurtin' like 'ell … can't get 'ingers to go. Loss cause. I … take this 'anage off, 'kay? S'not hel'ing at all. Adds to … 'resshure."

She hesitated, translating. Not smiling at his dilemma. "Go ahead. You know what's best for you. Did Brandy give you the meds I suggested?"

"Don' know. Din't look. Jus' took." He was slowly unwinding the elastic bandage while Hazel massaged his stump gently with both hands, readying it for a sock. He saw her closely inspecting the skin and the area where the staples had been. Suddenly he cleared his throat and stared at her sideways.

Sternly: "Are you looking up my pant leg, woman?" He was certainly able to enunciate _that_ plainly enough.

"What? No!" Her eyes widened and her jaw dropped open before she realized he was joking. His odd purple face looked funny when he smiled, because he was trying so hard not to be ouchy about it. She sat back and stared at him, not at all amused.

"Sowwy," he said. "I 's kidding. I jus' needed somethin' to holler at. It a shitty day. I didn' t'wy to insult you."

Hazel's face softened. "It's okay, Doc," she said at last. "You just surprised me, that's all. Not too many men bother to flirt with me anymore, so I guess I should be flattered."

"Don't sell yersel' short, lady. You a looker. Guess I feelin' sowwy for mysel'. A hur' hand and a gone leg … I useless as teats on a ... _You _know …"

"Yeah, I know. A bull." Sighing compassionately for all his recent difficulties, she reached out with both arms until he took the hint and let himself lean into the loose embrace as she pulled him against her and wrapped her arms around his slender body. She rubbed her palms up and down his back and then hugged him tightly to her, wishing they were somewhere else …

They ignored the traffic in the hallway and the frowned-upon public display of sympathy by a nurse for her patient.

He did not return the embrace, but allowed his arms to hang loosely over the edge of the bed, hissing as the downward thrust of his sore hand sent waves of pressure-pain racing up past his elbow. He ignored it. "Sonti'es I jus' 'ish things iss diff'ent," he said. "But gettin' star-cross' at a'ar age ain't the 'orst that could …"

"No," she said carefully. "It's really not. But we couldn't make it work, you know. The circumstances are all wrong, and the timing is all wrong. It's not the place or the year or the right reason. We work in the same place and that's a no-no.

"Besides … I'm too black and you're too white … and we're too old to start over." She knew she must be wary of things getting out of hand. He was ultimately compelling, but she knew she could not allow infatuation to mar a mutual friendship. She slid her hands slowly up to his bony shoulders and pushed his body upright, looking into his bleak eyes as she did so.

"Another thing, you already have all you need in the man who sleeps in that bed over there."

"Wha … ?"

"Please don't pretend you don't know what I mean. He would take a bullet for you." Hazel straightened and slid her hands back down his arms in final release.

"Don't go anywhere," she said. "I'm going to bring you some lip balm and some new stump socks … and ice chips and a heating pad for that hand." She rose and helped him swing back around in the bed. She was out the door quickly, and away.

All the residual "what-ifs" left the room immediately behind her.

Kyle stared at the empty doorway with that dour expression of his … and a half-open mouth.

His "thinking" face.

133


	32. Chapter 32

DARKENED WINGS

Chapter 32

"Irresistible Force, Immovable Object"

I THINK THE VW MUST HAVE BEEN RUNNING ON FUMES, BECAUSE IT BUCKED AND SPUTTERED AND DIED WITH A WHUFF OF POST-IGNITION AS I PULLED UP TO THE PUMP. LUCKILY, I'D JUST MADE IT BEFORE RUNNING OUT OF GAS ON THE ROAD. AFTER THIS I MUST BE MORE VIGILANT.

I REMEMBERED PASSING BY THIS PLACE WHEN I FIRST GOT INTO TOWN, BUT I HADN'T REALIZED IT WAS THIS BIG. IT WAS KIND OF A 'DINER, CONVENIENCE STORE, GAS STATION' KIND OF PLACE, LIKE MANY THAT KEEP SPRINGING UP THESE DAYS IN RURAL AREAS. THERE IS NOTHING ELEGANT ABOUT THEM, BUT THEY OFFER EVERYTHING FROM SOUP TO NUTS, INCLUDING GOOD EATS AND LOCAL GOSSIP, IF YOU HAPPEN TO BE UP ON THAT SORT OF THING … WHICH I'M NOT.

THERE WERE QUITE A FEW CARS NOSED IN BY THE DINER, AND A COUPLE BY THE STORE. THERE WAS A BIG DODGE PICKUP AT ONE OF THE OTHER PUMPS GULPING DOWN GAS LIKE A THIRSTY GRIZZLY BEAR. I COULD HEAR THE PUMP DINGING THE GALLONS AWAY.

A SIGN ON THE PUMPS READ "PAY INSIDE", SO I GRABBED MY WALLET AND HEADED IN. THE MAN BEHIND THE COUNTER AND THE WOMAN AND TWO YOUNGER GIRLS OVER ON THE DINER SIDE HAD TO BE A FAMILY. THEY ALL LOOKED ALIKE, AND THEY PAUSED TO LOOK ME OVER AS I WALKED UP AND NODDED A GREETING. THE BUZZ OF CONVERSATION FROM THE EATERY CUSTOMERS WAS A COMFORTABLE BACKDROP TO THE 70s MUSIC PLAYING ON THE JUKE BOX.

"MINE IS THE GREEN VW BUG DOWN AT THE END PUMP, " I SAID.

HE LOOKED BEYOND ME AT MY SQUAT LITTLE CAR AND SMILED. "THAT'S PUMP NUMBER THREE. HOW MUCH YOU THINK SHE'LL TAKE?"

"OH … LET'S TRY THIRTY DOLLARS. I THINK IT'S ABOUT DRY." I DUG IN MY WALLET AND PULLED OUT A TWENTY AND A TEN.

"DON'T SEE MANY OLDER VWs IN THAT GOOD A CONDITION. HOW'S SHE RUN FOR YA?"

"IT RUNS GREAT," I SAID. "I JUST DROVE IT UP FROM JERSEY ABOUT A WEEK AGO."

"WELL OKAY, YOUNG MAN," THE GUY SAID. "YOU CAN START YOUR PUMP NOW. STOP IN AGAIN IF YOU'RE STILL IN THE AREA. HAPPY NEW YEAR TO YA."

"CAN DO," I REPLIED. "HAPPY NEW YEAR TO YOU TOO." I TURNED AND WALKED BACK OUTSIDE INTO THE BRISK WINTER AIR. IT HAD THE SMELL OF INCOMING SNOW. WHEN YOU LIVE IN THE NORTHEAST, YOU JUST GET A FEELING ABOUT THAT. I UNCAPPED THE BUG'S GAS TANK AND SET THE TRIGGER. THE DODGE TRUCK HAD PULLED OUT AND A FORD FUSION HAD TAKEN ITS PLACE.

I HADN'T EVEN REALIZED THAT TODAY WAS NEW YEARS' EVE. IT WAS BUSINESS-AS-USUAL AT THE HOSPITAL, AND NO ONE HAD EVEN MENTIONED THAT ANOTHER HOLIDAY WAS IN THE OFFING.

KYLE CALLOWAY HAD BEEN WITHOUT HIS RIGHT LEG FOR OVER A WEEK. FUNNY HOW TIME SLIPS AWAY.

SUDDENLY I WAS THRUST BACK IN TIME, INTO THE ILLUSION OF WAITING BACKSTAGE IN THE DARKENED WINGS, WAITING FOR SOME KIND OF CUE …

I SHOOK MY HEAD TO CLEAR IT, WISHING THESE STRANGE MENTAL EXCURSIONS WOULD RESOLVE THEMSELVES, ONE WAY OR ANOTHER. WHAT DID THEY MEAN?

'YOUNG MAN', HUH? I THOUGHT. BEEN A WHILE SINCE ANYONE'S CALLED ME THAT.

THIRTY DOLLARS PINGED UP QUICKLY. I LIFTED THE HOSE AND REPOSITIONED IT BACK ON THE PUMP. INSIDE THE CAR, I TURNED THE KEY AND FIRED HER UP TO THE TUNE OF A LOT OF SPUTTERING. THE NEEDLE ON THE GAS GAUGE FLEW TO THE PEG ABOVE THE FULL MARK. SHE'D BEEN THIRSTY. THE ENGINE FINALLY LEVELED OUT AND I PULLED OFF THE LOT AND HEADED TO THE 'BANK OF ETNA' TO PAY SOME ALMOST-OVERDUE BILLS.

When I returned to DHMA, it was about 3:00 p.m. and all was quiet on the ward. When I turned the corner into Kyle's room, however, I encountered a crowd. My heart rushed to my throat as all kinds of disaster images crowded into my mind. What in god's name had he done to himself this time?

I needn't have worried though …

My friend was perched on the side of his bed in his underwear. (It seemed to me that he spent more time out of his pants than in them.) He was wearing a lopsided smile, and the 'crowd' consisted of four medical staff.

_What the hell?_

The most startling thing of all was the fact that he had a right leg attached to his body and was actually attempting to move it. The thing was jet black and joined with his stump, I didn't know how, and the knee was bent; the calf and foot dangling in a very normal position over the edge of the bed. I almost fainted.

Ed Thoreau and Joe Garrett were kneeling by Kyle's feet. Ed was adjusting something on the long black and perfectly contoured artificial leg. The others were watching intently. Joe held something in his hand that looked a lot like a small remote control.

"Now!" Ed said. When Joe pressed a sensor, the black metallic foot whirred slowly from side to side. The sound was distracting. When he hit another sensor, the foot buzzed slowly up and down. A third sensor bent the knee in a jerking motion, slightly away from the bed and then back. "Kyle, could you internalize or sense the movements at all?"

Kyle shook his head slowly in the negative.

In the area between the stump's ending and the top of the fake leg, a wide gray band encircled and encompassed both. It looked like it was made from some kind of poly plastic compound, but I knew it couldn't be that. Around the upper perimeter was a stainless-steel-looking metal band, a little narrower than the gray one. Under it, a series of four small white lights winked off and on. A very thin yellow wire extended from the strange device and was attached to an even narrower band that encircled Kyle's waist loosely. Centered on the band was another small light that emitted a blinking red glow.

"The red sensor isn't supposed to blink," Joe Garrett observed.

"Yeah, I know, dammit," groused Thoreau.

Kyle sat still and watched as the two men twiddled and tweaked. He looked up and saw me and smiled tiredly.

Something about his injured hand drew my attention. It was unbandaged, and he was leaning on it.

_What the … ?_

He caught me staring.

"Li-do-caine," he mouthed.

I mouthed back: "Why?"

He sighed and rolled his eyes and flinched, all in the same motion.

Suddenly I realized this was the new medical breakthrough in its initial phase of testing. It was definitely state-of-the-art and devised within the minds of these doctors long before I came on the scene. This was the 'innovative science' Kyle had hinted about when we were having that strange discussion at his place before he was admitted for surgery.

I moved closer to his bed and stepped around Hazel and Brandy who moved out of the way for me to pass. Thoreau and Garrett were still working on some kind of electronic connections, and Kyle was beginning to exhibit signs of pain and fatigue.

"How long have they been working on this?" I asked in a whisper.

"A hour, gi' or take."

"I mean … how many _years?"_

"Unhh … like trenny …" He seemed a little shaky.

I moved closer to his side. "Lean on me!"

He did. He lifted his sore hand gratefully onto his lap. The undamaged side of his face came against my arm and I shored him up. I knew the work they were doing was important, but their patient was tired. He was as anxious as they were to see it through, and he had not complained. Nature of the beast.

Hazel and Brandy both realized what was happening at the same time. Hazel said: "Dr. Thoreau?"

Ed looked up impatiently.

"I think the Six Million Dollar Man has just spent his last five-point-nine million."

After that, they unhooked him quickly. They checked his stump and placed the strange leg with all the other electronic components and wires on an old medicine cart that had been pushed into a corner.

"I'm sorry, Kyle," Joe said, straightening. "We got carried away. We really wanted you to be able to try this out today. Rest now. We can try again tomorrow."

"To'orrow's New Year Day," Kyle reminded them. "You guys n'ed a res' too. We … do it day _a'ter_ to'orrow."

"Sorry, my friend," Ed Thoreau said. "We made you do all that for nothing."

"You didn't _'ake _'ee do anyt'ing. Can't fie a new 'lane wi'out a few rough lannin's …" He was smiling, but fading fast. His speech was still a little garbled, but we figured it out. I eased him down onto his back, and together we straightened him on the bed. Hazel and Brandy lifted his left leg and eased it into line with the rest of his lanky body.

Brandy removed a heating pad from the drawer in his night stand. She disappeared into the bath for a moment, and came out with a damp towel. She folded it inside the heating pad and folded that around his sore hand, turning the control to "low". They covered him to the waist with sheet and blanket. For the moment, he was out like a light.

"What's with that?" I asked. "He said something to me about lidocaine …"

"He really wanted to try out the leg, Kent ," Hazel said. "He'd wear it awhile so Ed and Joe could test-fly the components. This one's only the prototype, and like the 'G.I. Joe" leg, he couldn't actually put weight on it. Nor would he want to. His stump's not ready. Neither is his wrist. So he asked that they deaden his hand long enough for him to use crutches and walk with it for them. But it kind-of crashed and burned instead."

"Damn fool!" I said. But I said it with admiration.

Everyone cleared out by about 4:30, and I sat with him as he napped. He would hurt again when he woke up, and I wanted to be close.

They would soon be serving the evening meal.

He woke quickly when he heard and smelled the supper carts coming down the hall. He rolled his eyes when he saw me butted up so close beside him, but the look melted into a very small smile and his left hand reached to bonk my nose in a friendly gentle manner.

"Your bills are paid," I said with a touch of sarcasm and my hand on his shoulder. "So you're solvent for another month. I brought the batteries you asked for, and I got a bag of bite-size Snickers … good luck trying to eat them … and a bag of Three Musketeers that I thought might be easier. Your watch is in the back-pak too, and your beard trimmer. And a pair of blue jeans. I really don't get it why you want this stuff now. You should be going home soon."

"I not sure I _cah_ go home 'ight 'ow. I prob'y tell 'oo when I fig're it out 'sel' …"

That was the moment two white-clad kitchen people walked through the door with our supper trays.

"Doctors Calloway," the big one announced. "Your dinners!"

"_And_ your coffee carafe …" said the little one. _"And_ your ice-cold cow's milk …"

They were both smiling with a little more chutzpah than necessary. They departed before we could respond or comment.

I looked at Kyle and smiled.

He looked at me and grimaced. "I glad," he said, "when my 'ouf is like skin ag'in …'stead o' card-'ord."

I laughed. Couldn't help it. This guy, I thought, was more accident prone than Danica Patrick. "Don't try to talk, okay? You just make me laugh, and that'll make you mad … and 'round an' 'round …" I removed the covers from our plates and there was … spaghetti. Easy to chew and swallow, but spicy. We had butter bread with the crusts removed. I had coffee and he had cold milk. And for dessert? Ice cream.

He looked up, eyes wide, and he grinned and winced. His swollen face reminded me of a heartbroken puppy, but I held off the laughter with a surge of willpower that made me want to pat myself on the back.

We ate slowly, and he managed better with his left hand tonight than he had at lunch earlier. He made no effort to extricate his other hand from the cocoon of the heating pad. And he made no effort to chew. He let the pasta slide down his throat and chased it with milk.

"Hurt?"

He nodded. "Uh huh."

After supper I went to the nurses' station and requested more pain meds. He took them and they worked quickly.

That night he folded it up early. I knew he felt like crap and he had something stuck in his craw that he didn't want to talk about. I didn't press him. He would tell me when he was ready.

This time he called for attendants to take him to the shower room down the hall. I wondered why he didn't ask me, but at the same time it provided the first clue about what might be bothering him. He must be having pangs of conscience about the demands he'd been making on me since he became a patient here. If that was it, then I needed to draw him out to a point where we could discuss it. I did not feel as though I were being used or taken advantage of.

He was in a very vulnerable condition, and at the moment, quite needy. If I knew Kyle, and the man he used to be, his mind was churning with anger and guilt, and at the same time blaming himself for having done everything to himself.

Shit. That had to be it.

I would not bother him tonight, but very soon we needed to have a talk.

When he came back from the shower, the two attendants lifted him from the wheelchair as though he was a three-year-old. He thanked them and they left.

I was sitting on my bed in my P.J.s and he looked over at me, probably trying to decide what kind of mood I was in.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," I said back.

He held up his lame hand and wiggled the fingers. It was still swollen, but better. "Heat is good, huh?"

"Heat is good," I repeated.

"Face duddn' hurt much. I can tawk. Awmose …"

I laughed out loud and shook my head. "I'm glad, believe me. Talking pidgin English doesn't suit you at all. But for tonight you should shut up before you wear it out. Want to watch anything on TV … or do you want to go to bed?"

He sighed. "Go to bed."

And that's what we did.

One of the nurses turned out the lights, I think …

140


	33. Chapter 33

DARKENED WINGS

Chapter 33

"Getting Honest"

THE PROBLEM WITH HAVING TO BE IN A HOSPITAL ON A HOLIDAY IS THAT THERE IS ABSOLUTELY NOTHING TO DO, AND NOWHERE TO GO BECAUSE YOU'RE NOT AMBULATORY.

THERE'S NOBODY TO TALK TO. IT'S A PAIN IN THE ASS … ESPECIALLY AFTER YOU'VE BEGUN TO HEAL. YOU DON'T NEED CONSTANT ATTENTION ANYMORE, BUT IF FEELS AS THOUGH THE EARTH SUDDENLY OPENED UP AND SWALLOWED EVERYBODY. IT WASN'T LIKE THIS ON CHRISTMAS. I GUESS THAT'S BECAUSE NEW YEAR'S DAY ISN'T AS HOLIDAY-ISH AS CHRISTMAS.

THERE AREN'T ANY STUPID OLD 'NEW-YEARS-DAY' MOVIES, AND NO 'NEW YEARS' CAROLS …

IT'S NOT THAT MY NEEDS AREN'T MET … OR I HAVE TO GO HUNGRY. NOT THAT. BUT THOSE WHO ARE AROUND HERE MOST OF THE TIME HAVE THE DAY OFF. THEY'LL BE BACK TOMORROW AS USUAL, BUT THIS IS TODAY. I MISS 'EM BECAUSE IT'S DIFFERENT NOW. I USED TO SNARL AT PEOPLE TO DRIVE THEM AWAY FROM ME. BUT I DON'T DO THAT ANYMORE. AFTER A WHILE, I KIND OF TOOK A LIKING TO MOST OF THEM … EVEN SOME OF THE MORONS.

ED THOREAU WITH HIS OFF-THE-WALL SENSE OF THE ABSURD AND HIS NO-NONSENSE PHILOSOPHY LEAVES A HOLE IN THE AIR IF HE'S NOT AROUND TO HARASS ME. HE HAS A DEVIOUS MIND THAT CALLS OUT TO MINE, AND HE LIVES IN MY UNIVERSE, WHICH USUALLY MAKES FOR GREAT DISCUSSIONS. I ENJOY WORKING FOR HIM. WITH HIM. HE'S NOT HERE TODAY AND I MISS HIM TOO.

I MISS PETE AND RAY, THE TWO YOUNG GUYS WHO WORK WITH ME IN P.T. THEY WON'T LET ME QUIT WHEN I GET PISSED OFF AT MYSELF. THEY TEASE ME AND CAJOLE ME AND MAKE FUN OF ME WHEN I SLACK OFF. THEY TWEAK MY PRIDE AND MY DETERMINATION, AND THEY'RE THE REASON I'M AHEAD OF THE GAME AS MUCH AS I AM. I LIKE SNARKING WITH THEM.

THEY ALMOST … **ALMOST** … CAUGHT ME WHEN I DROPPED LIKE A SACK OF ROCKS BY THE STATIONARY BIKE THE OTHER DAY. LORD KNOWS THEY TRIED! BOTH OF THEM TAUGHT ME TO UNDERSTAND THAT A DRASTIC ADJUSTMENT IN LIFESTYLE IS THE ONLY WAY TO GO IF I WANT TO RESUME ANY KIND OF NORMAL LIFE. THEY'RE RIGHT.

I ALSO MISS THE SENSATION OF HAZEL BRADDOCK'S SOOTHING HANDS ON THE PARTS OF MY BODY THAT STILL HURT. I MISS HER ALWAYS-COOL EFFICIENCY IN ANTICIPATING A PATIENTS' NEEDS BEFORE THEY'RE AWARE OF IT THEMSELVES. I MISS HER SMILE AND HER FRAGRANCE, AND FLIRTING WITH HER LIKE A SCHOOLBOY, BECAUSE I'M CRAZY ABOUT HER.

I AM A CREATURE OF HABIT, YOU KNOW, UNLESS I HAVE A DIVERSION. TODAY I DON'T HAVE ONE, AND MY CONSCIENCE KEEPS THROWING LITTLE DARTS AT MY BRAIN. 'YOU KNOW WHAT YOU HAVE TO DO,' IT SAYS. SHOULD I GET HONEST? OR LEAVE IT ALONE?

_Ah, the bored inconsistencies of an unchallenged mind! _

_Here I sit like a bump on a log at ten in the morning, when I should be over in P.T. clomping around with the 'G.I. Joe leg', or doing laps on the parallel bars, or doing leg-stump lifts on the platform to exercise my hip … or doing arm and hand exercises to get back the strength in my wrist. Which, by-the-way, still hurts like hell when I put pressure on it. But I'm not going to be doing any of those things. I'm going to be sitting on my ass twiddling my thumbs and seeing what kind of trouble I can get into …_

_I have the case file that Ed gave me to look over two days ago. I figured out the DDS ten minutes after I read it, but it has some interesting wording, and I keep scanning through it. My lame hand holds it okay, even though I still get a sharp twinge now and then._

Kent?

'Little Brother' is across the room in rumpled tee shirt and jeans. Sawing logs again. 'Boy Wonder' must be as bored as I am. His bedding looks like there's been a raccoon-war on it. Housekeeping probably won't be in to change the beds today. We just have to make do. Poor us.

If he were awake, he'd be running around like a chicken with its head cut off, like he said when he found out I was being admitted for the amputation. This friend of mine hasn't sat still for ten minutes while I've been here. He runs around constantly, checking on me; bringing me stuff I don't even ask for; checking my temp, checking my stump, helping me in and out of the bath, helping me get dressed and undressed. Bugging the entire medical staff for updates on my status. He thinks I don't know.

I asked him for a bag of mini-Snickers. When he found out I'd hurt myself, he brought me mini-Musketeers too, in case it hurt my mouth to chew the peanuts. He brought my favorite watch and batteries for the old Game Boy, which I haven't touched since I've been here. I asked for extra clothes just to see what he would pack. He made a Broadway production out of 'Pop Goes the Weasel'. I just wanted to see what would happen …

He reminds me of one of those stickers you find on a DVD case after you peel off the first layer of the 'nuisance' packaging. They're a pain-in-the-ass to remove. You peel them off with thumb and fore-finger and they stick to the _other _thumb and forefinger. And you keep doing it 'til all that stubborn glue wears down. And then it sticks to your pantleg … or the edge of the waste basket. Or the carpet. Kent is like that kind of glue. Except that he has never fully worn off. Not really. Used to piss me off with all his dithering. Now I find I can allow him to dither all he wants. Makes him feel useful … and dammit, he _is! _ I don't know how the hell I got through five years without him. That aint gonna happen again.

Believe me!

I heard a long, deep breath and a sneeze coming from across the room … from his throat to my ears. I turned to look over at him. There were two more sneezes, a cough and then a sniffle. Was this the sound of the mighty oak falling in the forest where nobody could hear it but me? It does make noises after all. All kinds of them.

"Hey," I said softly. "Bless you!"

Another sniffle. "Hey! Thanks …"

"You finally awake, huh?"

"Yeah. Obviously. You're talking a lot clearer today, aren't you? Is it better? Or are you being a brave soldier like G.I. Joe?"

"I be'en G.I. Joe."

"Don't be a wiseass. What time is it?"

I made a great show of looking at the watch on my wrist. "It is 10:43 a.m. according to the nice watch my friend brought me from home …"

He smiled, shaking his head. Stood up and straightened his jeans, stepped into his old loafers. "Happy New Year to you too, he said. "Make any New Years' resolutions?"

"Yup. One. I've resolved to be jogging by Thanksgiving."

"Wow!" He exclaimed. "That's ambitious. Wanna hear mine?"

"Well, yeah. Gonna tell me?"

The light in his eyes dimmed for a moment, like I'd already won a contest that he never had a chance to enter. "My resolution is that we have you walking without a cane by summer."

I smiled at him. Tentatively. Broke open my chapped lip in the process. "Wish we had some wine or something so we could make a toast to that." I didn't want him to see me flinch at the sting from my mouth, or how touched I was by what he'd said.

He just nodded: "So do I."

After that, it was so quiet you could have heard a ladybug tiptoe across the window sill.

"Hey … Little Brother …?"

"Mmm?"

"We should talk."

"Yeah. I know. I remember what you said yesterday, but you also said you didn't have it figured out yet, and you'd tell me when you did."

"Well, I did."

"Oh yeah? You going to talk about it now? If you are, go ahead. I'm listening. Just remember that I'm hungry too, and listening to you babble isn't on my list of priorities … "

"Well … I'll mark that down in my notebook. Anyhow, you've heard about the Big Book of A.A., right?"

"Yeah. Even read some of it. What about it?"

"Step eight says: 'make a list of those I harmed and be willing to make amends '. Well, if I tried to make amends to everybody I harmed over the years, I wouldn't have time to do anything else for the rest of my life. So … I'm going to make amends to only one of those fools. You okay with that?"

"You serious?"

"Yeah … serious as I ever get. I said I'd tell you when I figured it out."

"… and you must have taken all night to figure it out, right?"

"Ummm … right."

"Please don't snow me under with a flood of theoretical erudition. I still get nervous when you're too sincere."

"I'll try to insert a couple of bullshit phrases to make you feel better, " I said.

His eyes drilled into my face with such intensity that I could feel little pin pricks penetrating my skin, sending rapt-attention endorphins seeping into every pore. I hoped he wasn't listening under protest, but at least he was listening.

"I put you through a lot of crap," I said. "Fifteen years' worth, to be exact. Don't get me wrong … you pulled some crap on me too, but I undermined you whenever I could. I'm not proud of that, and I'm sorry.

"Right now I'm a recovering drug addict, because an ex-drug addict is _always 'recovering'; _never '_recovered'_. So, if I use narcotics today, I'd go out of control worse than I was out of control before, because the damn progression never stops. Even if I stay clean for twenty years and then mess with narcotics, I'm right back where I was the day I quit. I don't want that, and you don't either. The stuff that Ed used during my amputation was given under a doctor's authorization at the time of surgery, and a day and a half after to ease my pain. That was different. If I'd taken them on my own, I'd have broken my sobriety. Okay?

"Also, I don't live that damn program or preach it every freaking hour of my life, although I've met a few people who do. I have a brain and I know how to use it. I also know what I have to do to stay clean, and anybody who attends two meetings in a row knows what to do too. Some of those idiots drive me nuts with their bitching and whining and the 'poor-me' stuff.

"It's like the teen-ager who got a car for his birthday. He goes out to show off and gets stopped by a cop. He runs to Daddy-Big-Bucks to get him out of it. Some dads pay the bill and the kid doesn't learn anything. The wise father lets the kid take the rap himself. He got himself into it; he can get himself out. So the new car sits in the garage for a month while sonny boy figures out how to pay the fine. This is the kid who doesn't pull that kind of crap again.

"I was the idiot who had to learn the hard way. I paid the price and then some. I kept going down the same road over and over again, until the road finally went over a cliff. Pain made me hard, and I left a lot of hurt and angry people along my road to self-destruction. Most of them I can't make amends to, because they're all pretty much out of my life. But the one who means the most is still here.

"We did a lot of hateful things to each other. We could sit here all night and recount them all, and blubber about how sorry we are. But that wouldn't be productive. So instead, I offer you my sincerest apology. For everything. And I swear to you: I will never treat you that way again as long as I live."

He opened his mouth to say something, but I held up my hand.

"One more thing:

"The reason I've been worried about going home … I _know_ you're going to take the responsibility of sticking with me, and I appreciate it more than you have any idea. It's gonna be a monster task. I'll probably have good days and bad days, and you'll have to put up with them all. I'll be a pain in the ass most of the time because of the lack of mobility… at least until Joe and Ed get the miracle prosthesis up and running. If they ever do.

"If that doesn't work out, then I'll have to take second best … and with my stump being so short … well, you know …

"Are you still willing to take me on?"

"Always was," he said quietly. "Always will be. But I think you already knew that …"

I had to look up to the ceiling at that moment.

… and start counting tiles …

145


	34. Chapter 34

DARKENED WINGS

Chapter 33

"Getting Honest"

THE PROBLEM WITH HAVING TO BE IN A HOSPITAL ON A HOLIDAY IS THAT THERE IS ABSOLUTELY NOTHING TO DO, AND NOWHERE TO GO BECAUSE YOU'RE NOT AMBULATORY.

THERE'S NOBODY TO TALK TO. IT'S A PAIN IN THE ASS … ESPECIALLY AFTER YOU'VE BEGUN TO HEAL. YOU DON'T NEED CONSTANT ATTENTION ANYMORE, BUT IF FEELS AS THOUGH THE EARTH SUDDENLY OPENED UP AND SWALLOWED EVERYBODY. IT WASN'T LIKE THIS ON CHRISTMAS. I GUESS THAT'S BECAUSE NEW YEAR'S DAY ISN'T AS HOLIDAY-ISH AS CHRISTMAS.

THERE AREN'T ANY STUPID OLD 'NEW-YEARS-DAY' MOVIES, AND NO 'NEW YEARS' CAROLS …

IT'S NOT THAT MY NEEDS AREN'T MET … OR I HAVE TO GO HUNGRY. NOT THAT. BUT THOSE WHO ARE AROUND HERE MOST OF THE TIME HAVE THE DAY OFF. THEY'LL BE BACK TOMORROW AS USUAL, BUT THIS IS TODAY. I MISS 'EM BECAUSE IT'S DIFFERENT NOW. I USED TO SNARL AT PEOPLE TO DRIVE THEM AWAY FROM ME. BUT I DON'T DO THAT ANYMORE. AFTER A WHILE, I KIND OF TOOK A LIKING TO MOST OF THEM … EVEN SOME OF THE MORONS.

ED THOREAU WITH HIS OFF-THE-WALL SENSE OF THE ABSURD AND HIS NO-NONSENSE PHILOSOPHY LEAVES A HOLE IN THE AIR IF HE'S NOT AROUND TO HARASS ME. HE HAS A DEVIOUS MIND THAT CALLS OUT TO MINE, AND HE LIVES IN MY UNIVERSE, WHICH USUALLY MAKES FOR GREAT DISCUSSIONS. I ENJOY WORKING FOR HIM. WITH HIM. HE'S NOT HERE TODAY AND I MISS HIM TOO.

I MISS PETE AND RAY, THE TWO YOUNG GUYS WHO WORK WITH ME IN P.T. THEY WON'T LET ME QUIT WHEN I GET PISSED OFF AT MYSELF. THEY TEASE ME AND CAJOLE ME AND MAKE FUN OF ME WHEN I SLACK OFF. THEY TWEAK MY PRIDE AND MY DETERMINATION, AND THEY'RE THE REASON I'M AHEAD OF THE GAME AS MUCH AS I AM. I LIKE SNARKING WITH THEM.

THEY ALMOST … **ALMOST** … CAUGHT ME WHEN I DROPPED LIKE A SACK OF ROCKS BY THE STATIONARY BIKE THE OTHER DAY. LORD KNOWS THEY TRIED! BOTH OF THEM TAUGHT ME TO UNDERSTAND THAT A DRASTIC ADJUSTMENT IN LIFESTYLE IS THE ONLY WAY TO GO IF I WANT TO RESUME ANY KIND OF NORMAL LIFE. THEY'RE RIGHT.

I ALSO MISS THE SENSATION OF HAZEL BRADDOCK'S SOOTHING HANDS ON THE PARTS OF MY BODY THAT STILL HURT. I MISS HER ALWAYS-COOL EFFICIENCY IN ANTICIPATING A PATIENTS' NEEDS BEFORE THEY'RE AWARE OF IT THEMSELVES. I MISS HER SMILE AND HER FRAGRANCE, AND FLIRTING WITH HER LIKE A SCHOOLBOY, BECAUSE I'M CRAZY ABOUT HER.

I AM A CREATURE OF HABIT, YOU KNOW, UNLESS I HAVE A DIVERSION. TODAY I DON'T HAVE ONE, AND MY CONSCIENCE KEEPS THROWING LITTLE DARTS AT MY BRAIN. 'YOU KNOW WHAT YOU HAVE TO DO,' IT SAYS. SHOULD I GET HONEST? OR LEAVE IT ALONE?

_Ah, the bored inconsistencies of an unchallenged mind! _

_Here I sit like a bump on a log at ten in the morning, when I should be over in P.T. clomping around with the 'G.I. Joe leg', or doing laps on the parallel bars, or doing leg-stump lifts on the platform to exercise my hip … or doing arm and hand exercises to get back the strength in my wrist. Which, by-the-way, still hurts like hell when I put pressure on it. But I'm not going to be doing any of those things. I'm going to be sitting on my ass twiddling my thumbs and seeing what kind of trouble I can get into …_

_I have the case file that Ed gave me to look over two days ago. I figured out the DDS ten minutes after I read it, but it has some interesting wording, and I keep scanning through it. My lame hand holds it okay, even though I still get a sharp twinge now and then._

Kent?

'Little Brother' is across the room in rumpled tee shirt and jeans. Sawing logs again. 'Boy Wonder' must be as bored as I am. His bedding looks like there's been a raccoon-war on it. Housekeeping probably won't be in to change the beds today. We just have to make do. Poor us.

If he were awake, he'd be running around like a chicken with its head cut off, like he said when he found out I was being admitted for the amputation. This friend of mine hasn't sat still for ten minutes while I've been here. He runs around constantly, checking on me; bringing me stuff I don't even ask for; checking my temp, checking my stump, helping me in and out of the bath, helping me get dressed and undressed. Bugging the entire medical staff for updates on my status. He thinks I don't know.

I asked him for a bag of mini-Snickers. When he found out I'd hurt myself, he brought me mini-Musketeers too, in case it hurt my mouth to chew the peanuts. He brought my favorite watch and batteries for the old Game Boy, which I haven't touched since I've been here. I asked for extra clothes just to see what he would pack. He made a Broadway production out of 'Pop Goes the Weasel'. I just wanted to see what would happen …

He reminds me of one of those stickers you find on a DVD case after you peel off the first layer of the 'nuisance' packaging. They're a pain-in-the-ass to remove. You peel them off with thumb and fore-finger and they stick to the _other _thumb and forefinger. And you keep doing it 'til all that stubborn glue wears down. And then it sticks to your pantleg … or the edge of the waste basket. Or the carpet. Kent is like that kind of glue. Except that he has never fully worn off. Not really. Used to piss me off with all his dithering. Now I find I can allow him to dither all he wants. Makes him feel useful … and dammit, he _is! _ I don't know how the hell I got through five years without him. That aint gonna happen again.

Believe me!

I heard a long, deep breath and a sneeze coming from across the room … from his throat to my ears. I turned to look over at him. There were two more sneezes, a cough and then a sniffle. Was this the sound of the mighty oak falling in the forest where nobody could hear it but me? It does make noises after all. All kinds of them.

"Hey," I said softly. "Bless you!"

Another sniffle. "Hey! Thanks …"

"You finally awake, huh?"

"Yeah. Obviously. You're talking a lot clearer today, aren't you? Is it better? Or are you being a brave soldier like G.I. Joe?"

"I be'en G.I. Joe."

"Don't be a wiseass. What time is it?"

I made a great show of looking at the watch on my wrist. "It is 10:43 a.m. according to the nice watch my friend brought me from home …"

He smiled, shaking his head. Stood up and straightened his jeans, stepped into his old loafers. "Happy New Year to you too, he said. "Make any New Years' resolutions?"

"Yup. One. I've resolved to be jogging by Thanksgiving."

"Wow!" He exclaimed. "That's ambitious. Wanna hear mine?"

"Well, yeah. Gonna tell me?"

The light in his eyes dimmed for a moment, like I'd already won a contest that he never had a chance to enter. "My resolution is that we have you walking without a cane by summer."

I smiled at him. Tentatively. Broke open my chapped lip in the process. "Wish we had some wine or something so we could make a toast to that." I didn't want him to see me flinch at the sting from my mouth, or how touched I was by what he'd said.

He just nodded: "So do I."

After that, it was so quiet you could have heard a ladybug tiptoe across the window sill.

"Hey … Little Brother …?"

"Mmm?"

"We should talk."

"Yeah. I know. I remember what you said yesterday, but you also said you didn't have it figured out yet, and you'd tell me when you did."

"Well, I did."

"Oh yeah? You going to talk about it now? If you are, go ahead. I'm listening. Just remember that I'm hungry too, and listening to you babble isn't on my list of priorities … "

"Well … I'll mark that down in my notebook. Anyhow, you've heard about the Big Book of A.A., right?"

"Yeah. Even read some of it. What about it?"

"Step eight says: 'make a list of those I harmed and be willing to make amends '. Well, if I tried to make amends to everybody I harmed over the years, I wouldn't have time to do anything else for the rest of my life. So … I'm going to make amends to only one of those fools. You okay with that?"

"You serious?"

"Yeah … serious as I ever get. I said I'd tell you when I figured it out."

"… and you must have taken all night to figure it out, right?"

"Ummm … right."

"Please don't snow me under with a flood of theoretical erudition. I still get nervous when you're too sincere."

"I'll try to insert a couple of bullshit phrases to make you feel better, " I said.

His eyes drilled into my face with such intensity that I could feel little pin pricks penetrating my skin, sending rapt-attention endorphins seeping into every pore. I hoped he wasn't listening under protest, but at least he was listening.

"I put you through a lot of crap," I said. "Fifteen years' worth, to be exact. Don't get me wrong … you pulled some crap on me too, but I undermined you whenever I could. I'm not proud of that, and I'm sorry.

"Right now I'm a recovering drug addict, because an ex-drug addict is _always 'recovering'; _never '_recovered'_. So, if I use narcotics today, I'd go out of control worse than I was out of control before, because the damn progression never stops. Even if I stay clean for twenty years and then mess with narcotics, I'm right back where I was the day I quit. I don't want that, and you don't either. The stuff that Ed used during my amputation was given under a doctor's authorization at the time of surgery, and a day and a half after to ease my pain. That was different. If I'd taken them on my own, I'd have broken my sobriety. Okay?

"Also, I don't live that damn program or preach it every freaking hour of my life, although I've met a few people who do. I have a brain and I know how to use it. I also know what I have to do to stay clean, and anybody who attends two meetings in a row knows what to do too. Some of those idiots drive me nuts with their bitching and whining and the 'poor-me' stuff.

"It's like the teen-ager who got a car for his birthday. He goes out to show off and gets stopped by a cop. He runs to Daddy-Big-Bucks to get him out of it. Some dads pay the bill and the kid doesn't learn anything. The wise father lets the kid take the rap himself. He got himself into it; he can get himself out. So the new car sits in the garage for a month while sonny boy figures out how to pay the fine. This is the kid who doesn't pull that kind of crap again.

"I was the idiot who had to learn the hard way. I paid the price and then some. I kept going down the same road over and over again, until the road finally went over a cliff. Pain made me hard, and I left a lot of hurt and angry people along my road to self-destruction. Most of them I can't make amends to, because they're all pretty much out of my life. But the one who means the most is still here.

"We did a lot of hateful things to each other. We could sit here all night and recount them all, and blubber about how sorry we are. But that wouldn't be productive. So instead, I offer you my sincerest apology. For everything. And I swear to you: I will never treat you that way again as long as I live."

He opened his mouth to say something, but I held up my hand.

"One more thing:

"The reason I've been worried about going home … I _know_ you're going to take the responsibility of sticking with me, and I appreciate it more than you have any idea. It's gonna be a monster task. I'll probably have good days and bad days, and you'll have to put up with them all. I'll be a pain in the ass most of the time because of the lack of mobility… at least until Joe and Ed get the miracle prosthesis up and running. If they ever do.

"If that doesn't work out, then I'll have to take second best … and with my stump being so short … well, you know …

"Are you still willing to take me on?"

"Always was," he said quietly. "Always will be. But I think you already knew that …"

I had to look up to the ceiling at that moment.

… and start counting tiles …

145


	35. Chapter 35

DARKENED WINGS

Chapter 34

"Minor Miracles"

ED THOREAU CAME INTO THE ROOM JUST AS WE WERE WAKING UP. HAZEL WAS WITH HIM, AND SHE WAS CARRYING A SMALL PLASTIC CASE WITH THE 'DHMC' LOGO. WE BOTH KNEW WHAT IT MEANT. HE WAS BEING RELEASED, PROBABLY TOMORROW. THE CASE CONTAINED GIFT STUFF, LIKE POWDER, LOTION, A PACKAGE OF SIX STUMP SOCKS AND A COUPLE OF LONG, WIDE ELASTIC BANDAGES.

Ed and Hazel were here to give Kyle his final going-over in preparation for discharge, and Ed was all business. He had Kyle lie flat on his back and rotate his stump, checking for ease in manipulating his hip joint. After that, they both palpated the half-healed staple area, making sure there would no residual problem in the region of the small cut where the staples had been removed. Kyle admitted to bouts of intermittent phantom pain, which he'd hidden from me … and everybody else, for that matter. Ed was a little put out that his stubborn patient had not said anything, but admitted that his silence hadn't caused any problems.

Hazel pulled on a fresh stump sock , along with a new shrinker.

While they were at it, Ed reached for Kyle's sore wrist and manipulated that also, turning it one way, then the other. He drew the hand back from the joint and then forward toward the underside of his forearm. Kyle hissed and groaned and half jumped off the bed. His wrist was not healed by a long shot, and of course he had been hiding that too.

"What did you do with the heating pad I gave you?" Hazel asked.

"In the drawer of the stand." He sighed dramatically.

When Hazel opened the small drawer, the heating pad was crammed in with the creased medical file and a dozen-or-so silver candy wrappers. Three Musketeers Minis. He was embarrassed. His face turned a delightful shade of pink … along with the purple and blue and green. "Wow!" Hazel growled. "You've developed some very interesting multi-racial characteristics … including Vulcan, it seems ..."

"I'm pretty sure Vulcans like Musketeers Minis too, right Kyle? You must have shared them." Ed was already laughing. "Remind me again … what color is your blood?"

Kyle's face looked like a Miami hurricane. "Don't push it!"

After lunch, Ed and Hazel and Joe Garrett returned. Joe was pushing the wobbly little plastic med cart with the components for the 'electronic-bionic-nanotectronic-stereophonic –whatever' … damned leg. The parts I'd thought were plastic before, I realized now were titanium.

(Maybe dilithium too.)

If a fistful of that stuff could power the _Enterprise,_ then a microscopic grain of it should be able to power a prosthetic leg … and the man who wore it. (I smiled at my own joke.)

I sat down to watch as Ed and Joe quickly assembled the powerful-looking prosthesis and tested the flexibility of knee and ankle. Across the room, Hazel removed one of the elastic bandages from the small gift box and proceeded to wrap Kyle's hand and wrist with it. He tolerated her ministrations, but the look on his face shouted machismo while he craned his neck to see what Joe and Ed were doing. I pretended not to notice and turned my ersatz attention to the comings and goings in the hallway.

Ed Thoreau handed Kyle's crutches to him and assisted him to slide off the bed and stand near the area where Joe Garrett was making final adjustments to the proto-leg. From where I sat, the web of tiny wires, so evident the last time they tried this, were conspicuously absent now.

"There's a foam rubber cushion in the cup to protect your stump." Thoreau was saying. "You know you can't put a lot of weight on it, right?"

Kyle nodded, preoccupied with easing himself into the top section of the leg and balancing himself on his other leg and the crutches at the same time. "Yeah … I get it. Where's the gadget belt and the thingy with the lights on it?"

Joe Garrett laughed. "That stuff went to the same place your dead leg's going; to the bone yard. We did the math and decided that the rigging wires won't work. It all comes down to the fact that this thing has to be a single unit; integrated into the biology of the user's body. You don't need to have to fool with a bundle of wires and try to get used to a new leg at the same time." He reached for and picked up the wide gray band that we had seen before. This one, however, was wider and darker and even more substantial than the last one. The fabric was softer and the component bands more extensive. There was still the red light embedded into its configuration, but it did not protrude from the surface as the last one had. I did not have the haziest idea how the thing might work …

Hazel stood at Kyle's shoulder, ready to grab him if his balance fled. Kyle was fixated on the business at hand, concentrating on maintaining a precarious equilibrium as Ed Thoreau guided his stump tenderly into the prosthetic's deep cup, taking note that the cup's rim came precariously close to Kyle's crotch. "Gonna have to trim off some of that edge," he quipped. "Don't want to cut your balls off!"

Kyle scrunched up his nose, wincing, and leaned forward on the crutches to insinuate himself into Ed Thoreau's face. "You cut my balls off, my friend, and I'll cut off your …."

Snickering, Thoreau and Garrett continued to fit the cup around the stump, turning down the edge and marking the amount of material to be removed for comfort of fit. When they were satisfied, they took up the gray band and circled the top of the prosthesis and the bottom of Kyle's stump. Something began to happen when they drew the ends together and snapped them into place. The red light came on and remained on. We all heard a short series of clicks.

Abruptly Kyle stiffened. His hands tightened on the grips of the crutches: no pause to wince at a stab of pain ghosting up his arm. His eyes widened in shock and surprise. Joe Garrett and Ed Thoreau and Hazel Braddock straightened at his side, grinning like cat burglars. The components they had planted into his femur during the amputation surgery were up and running. Their 'miracle' was now a reality, and so was the six-million-dollar man.

"SHAZAM!" Yelled Joe Garrett.

I was the only one in the room who was still in the dark about what had just happened. The only thing I knew for sure was that Kyle was now "initializing" the movements of his new leg … whatever-the-hell that meant. The look on his abused face was idyllic; his eyes danced with an intellectual's concentrated rapture and a child's sense of wonder.

Ed Thoreau stood with fists planted on hips, grinning like a shark. Next to him, Joe Garrett wiped tears of released tension, success and gratification from his face.

"Kyle … take a step," Joe said, "can you? Remember … no weight. Not yet."

In a dream-like state, Kyle Calloway leaned forward on his crutches. The prosthetic leg whirred and clicked and took a step forward in time. He stopped and looked up. Turned his head and looked in my direction just as I wiped my eyes and nose with the back of my hand.

"Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you! I think this is going to work. I can feel it establishing some kind of connection. It sort-of tickles in my bones, and it's like an idea forming in my brain, bit by bit. It's like a search engine, looking for a place to settle in and spread out. I have to learn to become simpatico and get onto the same wavelength in order for it to work for me. I get it, I think …"

He began to move around the room. Cautiously at first: then reaching out with lengthening strides; the leg whirring in rhythm. Then he was in the hallway, passing the nurses' station with heads coming up and following him. Smiles and applause as he walked past. His adaptation to the smooth mechanical cadence becoming more acute with every step.

I knew he was in love and loving it. His colorful face was, at once, handsome and peaceful. Attentive. Awe-struck. I hadn't seen it that way in many years …

When he came back to the room, his wrist on fire and his stump burning like hell, he collapsed on his bed with shaking body, shaking arms, and gasping with pain and delight.

They removed the miraculous leg carefully and placed it back on the med cart.

Kyle had to put up with the fussing of people concerned for his well-being. We swamped his rapidly swelling wrist with ice paks. A cool cloth swabbed across his forehead. I unbuttoned his cut-offs and pulled them down and away. His stump was quickly laid bare and caressed with a warm cloth and soothing lotion. He put up with it because he was too elated to do anything else than lie there with a stunned look on his face, staring at the ceiling and containing his emotions.

Ed Thoreau and Joe Garrett stood looking down at him, watching Hazel and me slathering him with care as though he were a prized three-year-old race horse that had won the Kentucky Derby. Joe tried to be stern, but it was difficult.

"We have to get this thing ready for you to use on a permanent basis," he said, "and that'll take a while, so you should try to get a handle on it. We know how you feel … well, mostly … but now we have to send it to _Guian-Kanu _in L.A.

"We're calling it 'The Calloway Leg'. We have to get it registered and patented, and then sent for fabrication before you can use it permanently. Which should give you adequate time for your stump to heal completely."

At this point, Thoreau interrupted. "You use the 'G.I. Joe leg' until that time comes. _And never without your crutches! Get it?"_

Kyle Calloway, his adrenalin high beginning to fade, winced with the pain in his arm. He nodded silently. Hazel and I stood watching.

"And now, 'Secretariat', you should try to relax and get some rest. Have yourself some hay and oats. I should be pissed off because you've just buggered your wrist enough to set your healing back a week or more. But who the hell can be mad at a minor miracle, eh?"

Kyle was too exhausted to talk. And too exhilarated to do anything but lie there and grin like a heroin addict who has just sniffed a couple lines of smack in a row. He'd felt the removal of the leg almost as though he was having a severe bout of phantom pain. It was already becoming a part of him, and he knew that the best thing about it, an even better one would be coming back.

He nodded his head over and over again as he was given instructions and admonishments … which I knew he probably wouldn't remember until he came down from this natural high and got his pain under control. And then he would have to put up with a couple extra hours of renewed pain in his arm.

"Don't let this idiot get too carried away," Thoreau said. "He still has a hell of a lot of work to do if he ever expects to walk normally again. Keep an eye on his hand. It's going to hurt. I'll probably see you before the two of you are ready to leave tomorrow."

I nodded once, and then they were gone. I was too pole-axed to even say 'thank you' …

Hazel and I leaned over him as he rid himself of the ice paks and stared at his hand in annoyance. He was coming down from the euphoric discovery that he would soon walk, pain-free, into a brand-new life. We stood back as he sat up again and moved to the edge of the bed. We all looked at each other, still a little speechless. A little dazed. He rubbed at his hand and grinned up at us.

Pete and Ray, his physical therapists from the gym, stopped by together to say goodbye and good luck, and the admonishment that he get up on his feet and 'go like hell!' That earned them hugs from him, and no end of young-man embarrassment; being embraced by a dude in his underwear. And two witnesses, no less. He had a good laugh when they left, and then collapsed back onto the bed.

Hazel and I straightened our boy wonder … (ha ha … who's the 'boy wonder' now?) and pulled up the sheet. He was still in his skivvies … would he _ever_ get used to wearing pants again without someone yanking them off him?

Hazel left soon after, and he dozed until suppertime when Paloma and Alex brought in our food with the usual aplomb and set it on the rolling table by Kyle's bed. When we told them we were leaving the next day, they greeted the news with mixed emotions: sorry to see us go, but happy that Kyle was well enough to go back to the real world without pain, and with confidence that he would walk again with an artificial limb. (We did not explain that there was so much more to it than that.)

Kyle kissed Paloma on the forehead, as he was wont to do with all mature women of his acquaintance. And we both shook hands heartily with Alex … except Alex refrained from touching Kyle's rebandaged hand. Instead, they butted fists, which probably hurt even more.

Supper was fried chicken, and we gobbled it like the pigs we were. We would both miss this hospital's marvelous cuisine.

In the evening I pulled together all the clothing and personal accoutrements we had accumulated over his week-plus stay. Fortunately it all fit into the large suitcase I'd brought there initially. Most of it I had rotated back and forth between the washer and dryer and here, so it wasn't like we'd need a moving van to get everything out. His blue backpack accommodated all his little stuff, including the mini-Snickers and what was left of the Three Musketeers and the idle Game Boy. He hadn't used the beard trimmer either … and you could certainly tell.

By bedtime, we were ready to go.

By lights-out we were 'sawing logs', as Kyle would say.

We were both waiting in the darkened wings until we were ready to come onstage and recite our lines. We weren't sure yet just how the drama would play out …

We left DHMC on a bright, sunny winter's day in January. One of the hospital's utility vans would deliver Kyle's wheelchair the following day. The bug was fairly roomy for such a small car, but with me in a parka behind the wheel, and Kyle in the old pea coat and holding his crutches in the passenger seat; the big suitcase in the back seat, and the blue backpack in the luggage compartment up front, we were a little crammed.

Hazel and Ed and Joe and Brandy were out front to see us off. Of course. Ed Thoreau was still shouting orders as I put the car in 'drive' and pulled away. We waved and were off.

Did we want to stop by the Watson Inn to see Lily and the gang? Of course we did. It was too soon after breakfast to eat a full meal, but we were grandly escorted to the dining room where this saga all started, and had coffee and hot buttered cornbread with the staff. Kyle was greeted like royalty by his friends there … all exclaiming over his bruised face and bandaged wrist … and we spent almost an hour getting reacquainted with everyone.

Kyle promised Jake and Joey that he would soon be ready to beat their socks off in a game of poker. They even invited me to join …

Then we went home.

"Do you, by any chance, have a housekeeper?" I asked, just out of curiosity as I held open his front door for him to make it inside. "It's awfully neat for a guy on crutches …"

"Sort of," he admitted. "Lily comes over here every Saturday morning. And I go over to the Inn. She cleans for me and I peel vegetables for her. Works out great."

I loved that answer. So … _him!_

"Where did you get the key chain that your mail box key is on?"

He looked at me with raised brows and a smirk. "Guess."

"Cameron."

"Good guess. Any more dumb-ass questions?"

"Just one. You want a beer?

"I found a six-pak in your fridge."

151


	36. Chapter 36

DARKENED WINGS

Chapter 35

"Encore"

A MESSAGE FOR THE READERS From Betz88:

THIS ISN'T PART OF THE LAST CHAPTER, BUT I WANTED TO WRAP THINGS UP BY THANKING THOSE WHO READ THIS STORY THROUGH AND HONORED IT WITH SUCH POSITIVE COMMENTS. I WANTED TO TELL YOU THE REAL NAMES OF THE 'CALLOWAY BROTHERS', AND LET YOU IN ON THE JOKE:

GREGORY HOUSE AND JAMES WILSON. YEAH, REALLY!

I'M SURE I'VE TOLD YOU THAT I KNOW **NOTHING** ABOUT THE ART OF MEDICINE, ALTHOUGH MY RESEARCH FOR THIS STORY HAS FILLED ITS OWN LOOSE-LEAF NOTEBOOK. (THERE IS **SO MUCH **OUTTHERE ABOUT AMPUTATION. I COULDN'T BEGIN TO ABSORB IT ALL!)

I REALLY DO WANT TO GIVE A SHOUTOUT TO "HARPOMARX" … MANY OF YOU KNOW WHO SHE IS … FOR LENDING A SOLUTION TO A "LEG" PROBLEM.

SO. THE PLAY HAS ENDED AND THE CURTAIN HAS COME DOWN. BUT THE MUSIC BOX PLAYS ON. HERE IS THE REST OF THE STORY:

**Time, they say, is capable of folding in on itself, thereby creating a vortex that will allow a physical body to go backward in time and relive part, or all, of a misspent life and make things right that once went wrong.** **I heard that somewhere, but I don't believe it. It might have worked for two guys named Beckett and Calavicci, but there's no proof.**

**Actually, I believe that if you just let time alone, it will level itself out and correct things that went wrong and reverse the bad stuff by allowing those who lived it to set it straight again, if they're so inclined. That way, time won't have to mess around folding in … or out … or around … itself.**

**So I heard. But I could be wrong.**

Kyle and Kent Calloway left Dartmouth-Hitchcock Hospital in January and moved together into Kyle's little four-room apartment in Etna, New Hampshire.

They had always known, together and separately, that they were better off together than they ever were separately. Conundrum? Yeah, but it made sense somehow. The time they'd spent apart from one another had been desperately lonely for both. Neither man ever wanted to be alone again, and there was only one solution to the puzzle: each other.

One of them planted a needle in a haystack, trusting that the other one would feed the hay to horses until he came upon the needle laying there sparkling on the ground. Then he would reach down, pick up the needle, and quickly thread it and follow the thread until it led straight to the whereabouts of the other.

They finally got it into their thick skulls that they were soul mates: the most important persons in each other's lives. Ever. Always had been, always would be. Period. Paragraph.

And that's how it worked out.

I TOLD MY FRIEND THAT I REALLY DID NOT WISH TO SPEND THE REST OF MY LIFE AS 'KENT CALLOWAY'. KENT CALLOWAY NEVER EXISTED, AND I NEVER CHANGED MY NAME TO KENT CALLOWAY LEGALLY. THAT'S WHY I DRIVE AROUND WITH A LAUNDRY BAG FULL OF CASH UNDER THE SPARE TIRE OF MY CAR. I MIGHT HAVE TO MASQUERADE AS KENT CALLOWAY FOR QUITE SOME TIME, AND I COULDN'T BE KENT CALLOWAY AND USE CREDIT CARDS ISSUED TO SOMEONE NAMED JAMES WILSON.

'Kyle Calloway', however, did exist once; early in my life. He was never much of a friend. He was part of an experience from my kidhood that I'd rather leave back in history where it belongs. But I did tell my best friend about Kyle, and he was the only person I ever _did_ tell.

My friend used Kyle for a purpose I would never have thought of, and it brought us together after a long time apart. My friend told me once that he could do without Kyle Calloway … and yet he actually did change his name to Kyle Calloway for the sole reason that I might come across it and track down the real person who had changed his name to Kyle Calloway just to lure me in. (Deep breath …) It worked.

Are you with me so far?

Well, the due process of changing one's name legally is almost as tiresome as waiting for a customized prosthetic leg to be manufactured to spec by Guian-Kanu Electronics Company in Los Angeles, California; about as far away from Etna, New Hampshire as you can get without crossing over a lot of water.

But that's not the point. 'Kyle Calloway' wasn't sure he wanted to change his name back to his _real_ name, because he had that black cloud hanging over his head. As far as he knew, there was still an outstanding warrant out there for his arrest on a number of nuisance complaints. He'd been threatened with imprisonment once on a slew of trumped-up charges and fled to some island in Never-Never Land. He'd sneaked back home for treatment of a badly injured leg, and been told he had to serve out the sentence … to be locked up and abused by galoots.

He ran. (Well … limped.)

Did he really want to be Gregory House, the inmate? Hell no!

Then, 'Kent Calloway', alias James Wilson, looked up the case that still rested in the dusty police archives of Newark, New Jersey and Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. The case had been dropped years before due to lack of witnesses and lack of evidence. End of story.

Or it _should _have been.

'Kyle Calloway' alias Gregory House, finally petitioned to get back his birth name.

And we waited.

Yep. Us.

Wilson and House, House and Wilson: The Bobbsey Twins of PPTH.

Ironic, huh?

His wheelchair arrived by messenger van the day after he was discharged from DHMC. He began exercising his leg and his stump the same day. Did pull-ups in the bathroom 'til the pipes rattled, and leg-lifts in the bed until I had to change the sheets and straighten the mattress. He clomped around with the 'G.I. Joe leg' once a day until his sore wrist slowed him down and he had to change from ice-pak to heating pad just to keep moving.

Sometimes I would prop his crutches outside the front door so he couldn't find them. Just to force him to rest. Sometimes he would be so exhausted that he would take to the wheelchair for hours at a time.

He was impatient on both counts: the new leg and the name-change papers.

Killing himself by degrees didn't make time move any faster, and I wasn't comfortable with time-warping.

Gradually he found a way to make time for things as they came and stopped trying to force changes that couldn't be changed. His old version of the Serenity Prayer wouldn't work anymore: ("God grant me the balls to change the things I can't accept, and the strength to deck anybody who doesn't do stuff _my_ way.")

He began to take pride in his appearance again. The neat beard and mustache took shape on his face and filled in the lines that had once screamed "pain". His hair grew longer and curled delicately about his ears. The facial bruises paled and his skin became tanned from being outdoors in the sun. His wrist returned to its full strength. He got out all his blue jeans and wore them with the right pant leg tied in a knot below the knee. He only used the cutoffs when clumping around in the sunshine with G. I. Joe.

He got his desktop out and began to work on the second Diagnostics book.

We got word from Ed Thoreau that an "autopsy" had been conducted on the crippled leg taken from "Kyle Calloway". Its blood vessels were clogged with plaque that restricted blood flow. Further examination had uncovered two small tumors forming near the foot and two more just above the knee. He had been divested of it at exactly the right time. It had gone into the furnace two weeks before.

"It wouldn't have worked out with you being my brother," House teased one night after we'd come back home from an excellent dinner at the Inn.

"Not much family resemblance," I agreed.

He shrugged. "Or we could've said: 'Same dad, different moms'."

"One Jew, One Gentile, huh?"

"Yeah … like Mary and Joseph! Never mind. It just wouldn't've worked."

He was hem-hawing around for some reason. I got in his face and demanded that he say what he thought; what he meant.

He shrugged again. "I been thinkin' … there's some stuff we've got to iron out."

"I'm listening."

"This place is too small."

"Uh … I don't think I can move out yet. You still need help. You can't stay here by yourself, and I …"

"Wilson!"

It seemed awkward, all of a sudden, to be yelled at with my real name. I stared at him.

"I don't want you to move out, dammit. I don't _ever_ want you to move out. Don't you get it? I don't want to be without you. Ever again. Do you want me to explain it to you in more graphic detail? I will, if that's what you need."

"I … I …" I felt embarrassed and incoherent. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"I don't know! What do you think I'm saying?"

He hurried on without giving me a chance to answer. "Wilson, this place is too damned small."

"Are you asking me for an answer to the problem?"

"No. I have the answer."

"Well for God's sake, man, spit it out!"

"I'm going to put it up for sale. Add another garage in the back and sell the whole she-bang."

"And you're going to live … ? Where?"

"Someplace of our choosing."

"'Our?'"

"Yup. You and me. _Always _been you and me, Wilson. Even when it wasn't. Even those five years when we never laid eyes on each other … when we blamed each other for stuff that didn't mean crap. When we finally got sick of it and moved on. I remembered the stuff you said to me, and the times you tried so hard to save me from myself. But it turned out wrong and things blew up. I guess that's why I left town and never told anybody I was going. I took a long hard look at who I was, and tried to fix it. I fixed some of it, but I still have to fill in the rest.

"Remember when you told me I needed to tell you I'd be there for you? Well, I might not have been there for you all the time _then _… but I'm here now, and nothing's gonna change that.

"Remember when you said I needed to tell you your life was worthwhile?

"Well, it was. And it is.

"And you wanted me to tell you I loved you?

"Well I did. I do. I always have. There!

"Now I'm telling you we need to put this place on the market and look for something bigger. Give us something to do until all the thumb twiddling is done. I want something with an indoor pool. Maybe a room with exercise equipment. Doesn't have to be a mansion. Nice place in the country somewhere close to work.

"Open concept for the nights when I'm tired and sore and need to use the wheelchair instead of the 'Calloway Leg'. A big kitchen that we can work in together. A place where you can hang all your movie posters, and a seating area with a TV where we can lounge around in our underwear and drink beer and eat pizza and watch old movies. Just not old _Christmas _movies!

Room enough to give my mom's piano a place of honor. I might even play it sometimes. Nice bedrooms with big beds and places to put the stuff we love.

"Oh yeah, by the way, you're now on the oncology team at DHMC if you want it. If you'd rather switch to something else, Ed'll take care of it. Or if you want to go out and sell paintings on street corners, I'm okay with that too.

"Are you up for any of that, Wilson? If you have another idea, I want to hear it. I'm not the boss of this. We have to do it together …"

For long moments I was silent. My head spun. He had just calmly said to me all the things I had wanted to hear for an uncounted number of years. Overwhelmed, I dropped my eyes and took a deep breath.

I talked him out of his obviously well-thought-out plan with one simple question:

"Why can't we have both?

"You bought that apartment and turned it into a place that accommodates disabled people. That was extraordinary. If you sell it, it's liable to be turned into condos for people with lots of money. Why don't you keep it? Run it. Move out and rent your apartment to another disabled person. You'd probably make a pretty decent landlord.

"Just an idea …

"And by the way, there's a farm for sale on the back road to Lebanon. Maybe we could go have a look at it sometime. And yeah … I'd love to be an Oncologist again. I wouldn't be very good as a painter. And also … I love you too. Always did. Always will."

His change-of-name papers arrived the first of March. He looked through them, shrugged, and tossed them aside. Never to see the light of day again.

(Why wasn't I surprised?)

"Now I gotta go through all the crap of changing my drivers' license, my car registration, my post office address, my home address, all my credit cards, my insurance papers … ah shit."

(And on and on and on …. into the middle of the night.)

Two weeks later we got a call from Ed Thoreau:

"We have a large box here from L.A. We were wondering if you gentlemen might have time to come in to the clinic this afternoon for a fitting and a brief run-through … and afterward, maybe a celebratory meal at the Watson Inn?"

Ed closed his phone with a snap because of the whooping and hollering on the other end of the line.

He was laughing his ass off.

"I knew who you were from the git-go, Big Guy," Thoreau said as he inserted Gregory House's healed stump into the specifically fit cup of the sophisticated-looking titanium leg. "Just because you showed up here with a pretty face and bright red crutches, you didn't fool me for a minute. I'd already read all your books and studied your articles in JAMA. And talking to you for five minutes in my office sealed the deal."

Across the room, Joe Garrett was removing the protective plastic cover from the wide-gray-band's control module. That piece had been made specifically for Kyle Calloway of Etna, New Hampshire, and that name was embossed on the inside of the band. Its serial number was "ONE".

Greg was perched on the edge of a gurney in one of the rooms he'd passed, supine, on the way to the operating theatre. Somehow it looked a lot different from an upright perspective.

James Wilson sat on a stool in the opposite corner, watching closely. His eyes were a little more shiny than usual, and he held onto the edge of the stool as though to move an inch would have thrown him to the floor.

Hazel Braddock stood beside him, hugging his shoulders and muttering to herself: "James Wilson and Gregory House. I don't **believe** it!"

Joe walked up to Gregory-House-Kyle-Calloway and passed the control band to Ed Thoreau. House, for the moment, in his underwear of course, (he was used to it by now), balanced on his crutches nervously.

Thoreau seated the band into position and clicked the contacts together. The red indicator light blinked on and off a moment, and then glowed steady. A series of clicks and whirrs began the short sequence to activation. House's body stiffened as he felt the jolt of ticklish power.

Ed held out a hand in caution. "This unit is not at all like the last one. Take just a few steps with the crutches until you're sure of your balance. You use the crutches for a week. When you've practiced with them and learned how to maneuver, you can switch to a cane. After another week … if you can walk with confidence and there is _no_ residual pain, then try it without the cane. Don't push it … and don't get impatient. You may experience additional phantom pain for a while, but it should disappear quickly.

"Have Kent … uh … sorry … _James … _walk with you as a safety precaution. I want you back here for a checkup in exactly one month. May tenth. Mark it on your calendar. If you're good to go, then your butt is finished loafing and I'll expect you … _both of you_ back to the daily grind!

"Walk!"

Greg walked. Slowly at first. Placing the crutches carefully, finding a balance with a limb that **worked. **

The new leg was quiet. No buzzes, clicks or whirrings. It didn't make a sound. It was the same color as Gregory House's other leg. No one would know he wore a prosthetic unless he walked around in a bikini and someone saw the wide gray band with the tiny red light. Even then, they still wouldn't believe it. What they would believe was that it was part of a new fad … and soon _everybody _would walk around with a gray band around their thighs … a gray band with a little red light.

He was cautious. Even a marvelous leg like this did not afford him sensation in foot or knee or in any area above that, except where his stump met the junction of body-to-metal. He had to get used to that. He had to learn to walk by instinct and trust the prosthesis to support his weight in a natural manner so he could avoid watching the ground instead of where he was going. This was very different. He had to adapt. The leg would tire him out, and he had to accept that reality also.

He was on his crutches, but walking at last, when they all went for dinner at the Watson Inn. Ed Thoreau, Joe Garrett, Hazel Braddock, Greg House and James Wilson. They were served by Lily Chamberlin and Jake Wills and Joey Brown, who still had a tendency to call them 'The Calloway Brothers'. But it was okay. The circle was unbroken.

I'VE BEEN WATCHING HIM EVERY HOUR OF EVERY DAY FOR MORE THAN TWO YEARS NOW. I'VE SMILED AND I'VE LAUGHED AND I'VE WIPED TEARS FROM MY EYES WHILE HIS BACK WAS TURNED. HE FINALLY PUT THE CRUTCHES AGAINST THE WALL BESIDE THE BED WHERE THEY'D BE HANDY WHEN HE WAS ESPECIALLY TIRED, OR WHEN HE NEEDED 'EM AT NIGHT.

FOR A WHILE HE USED A CANE. A FANCY BROWN ONE WITH A DERBY HANDLE AND A GOLD BAND NEAR THE TOP. I REMEMBER HE HAD A COUPLE OF THOSE, WAY BACK WHEN. THEN HE PUT THOSE AWAY TOO. FAR AWAY. HE LEFT THEM AT THE ETNA APARTMENT BUILDING, WHICH NOW HAS FOUR TENANTS AND A NEW GARAGE-STORAGE SPACE OUT BACK.

HE HAS MORE PATIENCE NOW THAN HE EVER HAD BEFORE. HE'S CHANGING A LITTLE EVERY DAY, AND I KEEP PINCHING MYSELF TO PROVE I'M NOT LIVING WITH A DOPPLEGANGER. I'M CHANGING TOO, BECAUSE HE'S NOT THE ONLY ONE WHO IS WORKING AT BECOMING THE PERSON HE WANTS TO BE. HE SMILES A LOT MORE, AND I'M BEGINNING TO BELIEVE HE MIGHT EVEN BE HAPPY FOR THE FIRST TIME IN HIS LIFE. I LOVE HIM UNCONDITIONALLY, JUST AS I DID ALL THOSE YEARS AGO, WHEN EVERYTHING I DID TO TRY TO HELP ONLY MADE THINGS WORSE. THANK GOD, I'M FINALLY GETTING OLDER AND WISER. WE BOTH ARE.

We bought that small farm near Lebanon and remodeled the house ourselves. It took a long time. A year. It's backed up against a green hillside where the trees hug the house like the Jolly Green Giant would hug his own child. We ride to work together every day. I still have the VW and he still has that damn old Dynasty. They're parked together in the barn. It's kind of like having pictures of both our mothers on the piano …

But there's a brand new SUV in the driveway that's equipped with hand controls. Those are the only remaining testaments to his disability. Except when he uses the wheelchair or crutches in the house in the evenings.

He has found that it is a chore, this whole idea of walking with a prosthetic leg. Even now it makes him weary after a long day at work, travelling the hallways and corridors and checking on patients and tests and conferring with colleagues. He doesn't mind consulting now, and his contemporaries seem to like conferring and joking with him. He smiles more because he doesn't do clinic and neither do I. We are specialists and Ed has other doctors to attend to walk-ins.

We are both tired when we come home, sometimes late in the evening. He heads for the bedroom, removes the leg and hits the wheelchair. He cleans and lubricates the leg and tends to his stump. Sometimes I give him back massages because he is still finding his way with this whole new method of existence. He has mellowed. _Is mellowing._ We find that we are happy with this new, modern hospital, this new town, this new life.

The second bedroom has become the guest room. We sleep together in the larger one. It just feels right. We spent too many years kidding ourselves, and the truth is much easier to accommodate.

We're both better doctors now than we've ever been. I'm less of a nagger; learning the art of quiet support. He's gentle, caring; sometimes even soft-spoken. A gentle doctor with a stroke of genius: picture that in the persona of Gregory House. I am constantly astounded, and it's an embarrassment of riches. Sometimes I miss the acerbic misanthrope he used to be. But I can tease it back if I want to, if I pick at him long enough.

Sometimes in the evenings he plays the piano. We have friends in, and he's no longer nervous about people seeing him on crutches or in a wheelchair. No one stares at him in pity, and no one patronizes him. (Ed Thoreau tells him to get-the-hell up and go get his own damn beer!)

When House talks about Monster Trucks, Ed's fourteen-year-old son, Jerry, is all ears. Joann Thoreau gets on with Hazel Braddock as though they've known each other all their lives. In a past life, maybe they have.

Things are beginning to level out. There are no more instances of drug-induced blackouts; no more panicked trips to the hospital with House moaning in pain in the seat beside me. When there is pain, it's only the physical complaints of two older men who are learning the complexities of advanced middle age. We can handle it.

Life isn't a charade anymore, because we've moved out of the darkened wings. We're very good together, because we work at it. We take nothing for granted and I've never been so close to real contentment as I am now.

I had always thought that the measure of a man lay in his marriage with a good woman. But that's not necessarily true. I've finally discovered that a good man sometimes fills the bill even better.

'The play is the thing' and it has earned rave reviews.

I came inside awhile ago to get supper started.

He'll be in shortly.

Right now, he's outside somewhere nearby …

In the sun.

Jogging.

******** THE END ********

160


End file.
